


The Adventure of the Missing Teens

by Arcwin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BAMF John Watson, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Case Fic, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Doctor John Watson, Drunken Confessions, Frottage, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, It's For a Case, Jealousy, John Talks Dirty, John Watson is a cheeky bastard, John teaches safety and survival, M/M, Masturbation, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Possessive Sherlock, Post-Slash, Pre-Slash, Sherlock teaches boating and swimming, Slow Burn, Summer Camp, Teenagers, Top John Watson, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-06-21 12:29:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 42,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15557736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcwin/pseuds/Arcwin
Summary: Finally complete!! Epilogue is up!!! Thanks for being patient!Sherlock and John get a call that every year for the past several years some teens have gone missing from this particular summer camp a few hours away from London. They decide to go undercover as camp counselors and investigate at the behest of one of the missing children's parents.Pre to post slash/developing relationship between our two Baker Street boys.Plenty of "stream of consciousness" thoughts from Mr. Holmes about everything (mostly how much he needs to get his shit together and stop being so distracted by John).I *promise* there is a happy ending. (And I don't just mean smut!)





	1. Focus on the Case

Anyone who knows me understands that I pride myself on my _superior intellect_. I am able to eschew emotional matters and instead _think_ and _reason_ , coming to logical and downright _irrefutable_ conclusions based upon even the most miniscule of observations. Yet, for _some_ reason when it comes to interacting with or understanding John Watson, _I am at a loss._

He’s angry today. _Correction_ : he’s angry every day. Presently, he’s angry **at me**. We were out on a case (which I solved easily) and now we’re back at the flat. He’s sitting in his chair with the newspaper. He hasn’t told me he’s angry with me, but it couldn’t be more _obvious_ , considering he’s been staring at the same page for 6.75 minutes, occasionally ruffling the entire paper with a _thwap_ before returning to the same place on the page he’s been staring at since he sat down. The lines on his forehead are more pronounced, and his jaw is taut while he grinds his teeth. (I’m surprised he hasn’t had exorbitant dental bills with the amount of time he spends grinding and clenching his teeth. Clearly he’s weakening his enamel. Make a mental note to purchase fluoride to add to the tea.)

“You should schedule with the dentist,” I announce, sounding bored, from the couch. His hands clench on the paper as he stiffens, and I prepare myself for the wrath. John is like a pressure cooker when he’s angry--the steam just keeps building and if I don’t find a way to release it, he explodes. Better to do it sooner rather than later, especially given the fact that I have absolutely no _clue_ why he’s so angry with me. At the very least it’s a learning opportunity, a chance to improve my interactions with him.

Why does it matter?

 _Irrelevant_.

John breathes in sharply through his nose and sets the paper down his lap. “The what?” he asks. His tone is acidic. I fight to ignore the swell of adrenaline in my chest.

“You’re weakening your enamel,” I murmur, not bothering to look more than a sideways glance at him. My fingers are steepled in front of my face, resting against my lips while I lay prostrate on the sofa. One might assume I’m asleep, had I not been speaking.

“I’m weakening my--,” he starts, then stops and shakes his head. “No, you know what, I’m not doing this with you. Not this time, Sherlock.” John pulls the paper back up out of his lap, opening it to the same page, and pretends to read some more. It lasts exactly 23 seconds before he flaps it loudly, folds it, and slams it down on the table next to him. With a slap of his hands to his knees, he pops out of his chair and turns towards me. “I need some air,” he announces.

_Do something to stop him._

“John!” I shout, internally cringing at the crack in my voice. He pauses at the doorway, but doesn’t turn to look at me. I think he knows he’d have less resolve if he saw my face right now, contorted and pleading. _Look at me, John. I need you._ “I...don’t go.”

The tension in his shoulders stays for a few seconds as he considers, then melts away as he sighs heavily, giving in. _Not as angry as I initially thought_. Without facing me, he snaps, “You could act like I’m useful every once in a while.”

Sitting upright on the couch, I stare at him with a frown while my thoughts race. _Useful? What is he talking about? I provide him with plenty of useful things to do. He is_ **_always_ ** _useful to me._ “I don’t--,” I begin before he raises his hand and faces me.

“I’m _more_ than just a gopher, Sherlock,” he adds.

 _What?_ “John, are you ill?” _Oh, God, I hope he didn’t--_ “You didn’t eat the stuff in that jar in the fridge did you?”

He gapes, his mouth flopping open as he considers just _how_ important it might be for him to investigate the fridge. He shakes his head and continues, refocused. “No. You know, when you first brought me to a crime scene you asked me to provide you with a competent medical opinion: a cause of death.”

 _The pink lady. Serial murders charading as suicides. The first time he saved my life. The first time_ **_I_ ** _saved_ **_his_** _._ I nod, unsure where he’s going but unwilling to stop him for fear that he might clam up and leave like he usually does.

“Now, all I seem to be needed for is apologizing for your ridiculous behavior and fetching your mobile from your coat pocket! **I** **am** **more than that!** And if that’s all you need me for, then--”

“I need you for much more than that, John,” I interrupt. _God, if only he knew!_

“And what’s that, hm?”

“I--”

He stares, hands on his hips and eyebrows nearing his hairline in expectation. _Tell him. Now’s the chance. Tell him. Tell him, dammit!_

“It’s hard to explain. Trust me, John, when I say that I do **_need_ ** you. I...I’m sorry.”

_Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid--_

He sighs and walks away from the door towards the kitchen. “Yeah, all right. Just...try to act like it a bit more, hm? Now what’s this in the fridge…?”

My mobile rings on the coffee table next to me, stopping him in his tracks. There are only two people on the planet who call me, and one of them is John. The other is--

“Lestrade. Must be a case,” John comments, walking quickly over to pick up my mobile. He knows I loathe to speak on the phone, so he answers it automatically for me. “Yeah, hi Greg. No, he’s here. What’ve you got?” He listens for a few moments, adding in the occasional humming sound for acknowledgement. I’ve determined it’s involuntary for him, something he probably isn’t even aware of at this point. It’s _fascinating_. I’ve got an excel spreadsheet detailing the types of hums he makes, complete with pitch, volume, and frequency differentiations and how they correlate to the various situations he uses them in. Presently, the hum is indicative of concern and sympathy--meaning either women or children are the victims of the crimes Lestrade is phoning about.

(I want to know what the hum sounds like when he’s being aroused.)

_Stop it, there’s a case!_

“Sherlock?” John calls, breaking through my internal musings. “I told him we would take it.” (Obvious, given the nature of the victims. John always says yes.) “We leave in an hour. We need to pack,” he says, grinning like a fool.

 _We need to--_ “What?”

“We’re going to summer camp,” he announces with a sly smirk, his hands planted firmly on his hips.

Without missing a beat, I reply, “No,” and flop back down onto the couch.

“Sherlock,” he says, the slightest hint of pleading in his voice. This is the usual tact he takes to convince me, and while I’m well aware of his _modus operandi_ and its effect on me, I am reluctant to give in so soon.

“No, John,” I answer, staring at the ceiling.

“It’s at least an 8.”

“John. Think of the children. You know I’m not a very good influence on them.”

“I _am_ thinking of the children, and that’s precisely why we’re going,” he argues, tone shifting towards annoyance.

“You go. I’ll use the webcam,” I suggest, flicking my hand in his general direction. I know I’m not winning this one, but that doesn’t stop me from egging him on.

In mere moments, my flatmate transforms into Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. His entire countenance moves to one of command. (My heart rate accelerates dramatically while I fight the urge to lick my lips.) “Absolutely not. Pack your bag now, Sherlock Holmes, or I’ll pack it for you. Don’t forget bug spray.” With that, he strides off, taking the steps two at a time to go pack for himself.

_To summer camp._

* * *

The only way to access the camp is to take a dreadfully boring train ride to the country. John informs me on the train that a few teenagers had gone missing from this camp every year for the past few years, and we would be working undercover as camp counselors (I to teach swimming and boating, he to teach survival skills) to ascertain the inevitable foul play. Why New Scotland Yard only just involved us is beyond me, and I make my irritation known. _Loudly_.

“They weren’t involved until recently--the local detectives were handling it,” John explains with a long-suffering sigh. “One of the parents complained and contacted the London Met when nothing was turning up. He’d seen some of our news articles and figured the world’s _only_ consulting detective would solve the case.”

I frown and retort, “Why didn’t he contact me directly? My email is clearly stated on the site--”

“He wanted everything done by the book and documented by the police. I think the locals may not have wanted us interfering--”

“Solving--,” I interrupt, narrowing my eyes at him. (Spotlighting their inadequacies is hardly a concern of mine.)

“With the investigation,” he adds. “Better to just have Lestrade backing us up than to ruffle more feathers than you already will, hm?” I stare as he pats my knee affectionately, aware that I am annoyed about including any official authorities in my work but that I’d acquiesce to have access to the case.

“Irrelevant,” is my reply, waving my hand dismissively. He leaves his hand on my knee for a moment too long, fingertips pressing hotly into the thin fabric of my slacks before he withdraws, humming in disagreement while he reopens his paperback mystery novel. I glare at it, jealous that it consumes his attention so easily, before turning to press my forehead against the window and sulk. Drawing my knees up and retreating to my Mind Palace, I review the articles about the disappearances.

 

> _Teen, age 14, disappears without a trace. Authorities are baffled._
> 
> _No sign of foul play, no witnesses._
> 
> _Police comb lake--nothing found._
> 
> _Another disappearance at local summer camp--parents are outraged._
> 
> _Attendance drops at summer camp. Counselors remind parents of new security measures._
> 
> _Third disappearance has everyone stunned. Camp is in danger of closing due to poor attendance._
> 
> _“Think of the children!” Parents cry!_

“Sherlock? We’re here,” John says, startling me back to reality. “When we get off the train, we have to...well, act the part, so to speak. _Be_ camp counselors. The other counselors are meeting us here, and they don’t know that we are undercover. So...can you just…,” he pauses, at a loss for how to describe acceptable behavior to me. I let him flounder for a moment, enjoying the rapid fire emotions flitting across his face, before rescuing him from his own trap.

“John, you forget my myriad of talents. I won’t _bugger it up_ , as you might describe it,” I respond with a smirk, my voice adopting his accent in a fairly accurate imitation. He grimaces, and I continue with a heavily over-enthusiastic tone, “Billy Scott just _loves_ his time with all these bright young kiddos! They _are_ our future, you know!”

John blinks owlishly at me, clearly taken aback by my sudden shift in personality, before shaking his head and snatching his bag from the overhead bin. “Right,” he says flatly. “Just...okay. I’m...I suppose I should go by a different--”

“Unnecessary, John. You’ll forget, and _John_ is common enough to pass. Just be you. You’re…,” I stare down at him, a list of adjectives cycling through my mind.

 _Fantastic. Brilliant. Sexy. Charming. Friendly. Romantic. Agreeable. Likeable. Loveable._ **_Perfect_** _._

“...adequate the way you are.” Neither of us say anything as we stare, unblinking, into each other’s eyes. My cheeks are burning, the back of my neck is prickly. _If only he could read my thoughts..._

He nods once in agreement (too much, too much) then pushes past me to exit the train at a pace faster than usual. With a sigh, I grab my bag and follow, ready to enter the fray and perform my part. I’ve already identified a variety of possible explanations for the adolescents disappearing, and therefore don’t expect us to stay at this summer camp for much more than a day or two. There is a small part of me that feels remorse that I won’t be able to teach these teens how to properly sail, yet I suppose they can learn in the future should they choose to.

As I exit the train, the sight of John conversing with the collection of other camp counselors gives me pause. He seems so effortless, laughing at someone’s joke and clapping them on the shoulder. Everything about the exchange feels natural, and I am inherently jealous of it entirely. Never in my life have I fit in with others the way that John does, and the fact that he is showering them with such attention makes me want to crawl inside my own rib cage while simultaneously shouting at all of them until they leave him alone. **(Mine.)**

_Focus. Case. These are the prime suspects. Observe now while you have the chance._

(Ignore John.)

_Feels impossible._

(Ignore him, dammit!)

_Five other counselors present. Three have experience at this camp in particular, two are new to this location but have been camp counselors before. Four women, one man. Director is female, age 63, has two cats, is widowed, and has two adult children with whom she is estranged. Brown hair, brown eyes, mousy appearance despite her obvious strength and firm attitude. Would lose her job if the camp closed, therefore less likelihood that she’s the culprit for the missing teens. Second in command is the male--age 24, closeted homosexual, trying to lead the director on in order to gain favors. Perhaps she’s considering retiring sometime soon? He would be the most likely to take over if she left. Unlikely that he’d benefit from the camp closing--_

“Billy! Come meet our comrades in arms!” John shouts, breaking me out of my analysis. Within seconds I transform into the role I’ve chosen--Billy Scott, a 25 year old recent uni graduate in engineering who has lived his life on boats and loves teaching. My face relaxes into a falsely warm smile and I join the group, settling a hand on John’s shoulder.

(Possessive.) _Shut up._

The counselors turn to greet me and I lean even closer to John, comforted by his proximity.

_Stop it._

Immediately the woman I presume to be in charge steps forward, her hand outstretched. Internally cringing, I take it firmly and smile while awaiting the introductions.

“Nice to meet you, Billy. I’m Alice Brent, director of the camp and instructor for archery and riflery. This is Nathaniel Greene, my right hand man and head of lifeguarding,” she says, gesturing to the young man standing near her who is trying his hardest not to stare at me like a piece of dessert. _Not available, you git. Eyes off._ “Here we have Melissa Chalmers, our arts and crafts instructor. She’s actually a proper art therapist!” The woman blushes nearly as red as her hair, a lopsided smirk on her face while she looks down at her feet. “And over here we have Lily Pleasance, the head of environmental science. Lastly Brenda Ramsey, who handles the ropes course and other sports,” she finishes, smiling at the last counselor widely before turning back to face me. “I heard you specialize in swimming and sailing?”

With a nod, I reply, “Yes, that’s correct. Love the water. Any day on a boat is a good day, in my opinion.”

Nathaniel, his eyes still roving over me, grins and comments, “Looks like we’ll be spending a lot of time together then! Lucky me!”

_No no no no NO!_

Next to me, John stiffens and leans into me, his shoulder touching mine. “Lifeguarding, right? I knew a few blokes with lifeguarding experience when I was in the army,” he says, voice deeper than normal.

_Showing dominance? Interesting. Will investigate John’s motivation further when we are alone. Perhaps he knows something about Nathaniel that I haven’t already deduced._

“The army?” Nathaniel asks, surprised.

“Oh, yes. John was in the army for quite some time until he took a bullet to the shoulder. That’s why he’s so qualified to instruct the basic survival skills and first aid course for the camp,” I reply quickly, smiling down at my companion. John looks up at me through his eyelashes, a warmth in his eyes at my praise.

_I--_

_It's--_

_Stop it. Stop it_ **_now_** _._

Alice announces that the van has arrived and we are to load into it for the last hour of travel to the camp. John and I stay close to each other, naturally, and end up sitting in the last row of the van for the drive. My heart hammers away in my chest, giving me the irrational fear that somehow he might hear it and **know**. _Absurd._

(I like sitting so close to him.)

_Shut up. Focus on the case._

* * *

We are (unnecessarily) informed that we are arriving a day and a half before the campers do ( _obviously_ ) by Nathaniel, who cannot help but make inappropriately intense eye contact the entire time he speaks at us. John seems annoyed by this behavior, asking ridiculous questions until Nathaniel diverts his attention from me to answer them. I’m secretly pleased that John is inserting himself between us.

(Jealousy, perhaps?)

_Ridiculous. Don’t be stupid._

After the hour long van ride, during which I spent as much time as possible staring out the window while safely tucked into my Mind Palace so as to ignore the inane chatter, we finally stop at the cabins assigned to the camp counselors. Our lodging is the closest to the exit of the camp, a change that was made when Alice increased security measures after the second disappearance. While we unpack the van, Alice announces the cabin assignments, sounding as confident as any camp leader for teenagers ought to.

“Cabin 1 is myself and Melissa. Cabin 2 houses you three lads, and Cabin 3 is for Lily and Brenda,” she states clearly. “There’s a cabin phone system here--all you need do is dial 9, then 001, 002, 003, etc for whichever cabin you are trying to reach.”

John’s eyebrows raise as he asks, “And the campers? They have phones too?”

Alice nods, her lips drawn into a forced smile. “Yes, a security measure requested by some of the parents of our campers after our...problems. The phones in the camper’s cabins can dial for emergency services and in-camp only--no calls home to sweethearts or parents unless requested and monitored by a camp counselor during daylight hours. Parents can, of course, call us if they need to. The main line to dial out is in my cabin.” She continues unpacking the van, handing duffle bags to their owners and pulling out camp supplies. “John?”

“Yes?” my companion asks with a smile. Alice unceremoniously thrusts him a large box of sparklers, which he takes somewhat clumsily as he tries to balance himself. “What’s…?”

“You’re the survival skills and safety instructor, figured you ought to hang onto the fireworks, eh?” she says with a smirk while turning back to the van. “And you, boat boy,” ( _boat boy!?)_ “you can take these,” she adds as she stacks personal flotation devices in my outstretched arms. “We’re short on space here, so keep these in your cabins. After everyone gets settled, we’ll have dinner in the mess hall and go over the schedules for the next two weeks. Your cabin is that way,” Alice directs with a jut of her chin.

With a somewhat shocked glance between myself and John, we begin lugging our gear over to our cabin. Nathaniel lags, shouting something to try to make us wait while he tries in vain not to get left behind. I don’t bother hiding the grin as John and I both speed our pace, sharing a conspiratorial look as we fake enough chit-chat to make it seem as though we didn’t hear our tag-a-long. Once we arrive at the cabin, I do a quick visual sweep to determine any points of interest.

_Built 10 years ago by a Dutch craftsman. Knotty pine used in construction. One hundred seventy seven metres squared. No heat, no air conditioning. Double lock on door, including deadbolt. Full septic access for complete bathroom amenities. No kitchen, two rooms total._

“Well this is cozy, hm?” John comments quietly at my side. He bumps my shoulder with his, throwing me a brief but genuine smile. “You’ll have to try to get some sleep, you know. I can sleep through your middle of the night pacing, but our friend may not be able to.”

“Nonsense, John. Sleep? On a case?”

“Oi, you two! Didn’t you hear me? I have the keys!” Nathaniel shouts as he catches up to us, a heavy duffel swung over his shoulder. “It’ll be nice to have some mates to bunk with this time. Usually I’m the only bloke here! Gets a bit lonely at night, you know!” he adds with a wink in my direction. I can nearly feel John’s hackles rise at the gesture, catching sight of his jaw working in my periphery.

Falsely grinning at our bunk mate, I reply with a whine, “Let us in, Nathaniel! We’ve got a lot to unload and I’m knackered.”

John glances up at me, a slight frown between his brows until he remembers the character I’m playing and nods emphatically. “Same.”

Nathaniel pulls open the screen door, holding it open with his rear end, and unlocks the two locks to showcase exactly what I already deduced about our living arrangements. Two rooms (bed and bath), no kitchen, 177 metres squared, and four beds.

 _Bunk_ beds. Hm. Not what I was expecting.

“You guys can call me Nate, by the way. Alice is a bit old fashioned--likes proper names. Everyone at home calls me Nate though,” our companion says as he holds the door open for us.

“She’s also known you since you were a camper here yourself, so I’m sure she has some motherly feelings towards you,” I add as I dump the PFDs on the table in the corner and walk around as if inspecting the room. (Evidence of mouse activity, must ask about traps or repellant.)

“How did you--,” Nate queries before John interrupts.

“She told us when we applied. Gave us the run down of the other camp counselors and how she knows you all,” he says while setting down the sparklers. He throws a warning look at me while Nate’s back is turned-- _be careful you git_ \--and throws his bag on the bottom bunk.

“Huh, yeah, I guess she’s a bit proud of how long she’s been running the place, the old bird,” Nate reasons. “Billy, you going to bunk with me or--”

“John is adequate,” (brilliant, gorgeous, charming, unique) “thank you,” I answer while tossing my bag up onto the bunk above John’s. “Sure you don’t want the top, John?” I ask quietly. He stops unpacking his neatly arranged duffel and stands to face me, closer than usual.

“Do you want me on top?” he murmurs intimately.

**_(GOD YES)_ **

_Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it--_

“Only if that’s your preference,” I answer, staring at him while he wets his lips, my heart feeling as though it might crawl out of my throat while adrenaline courses through my veins and makes my stomach feel slightly sick.

Behind us, Nate clears his throat loudly. “Thought you were knackered? I’ll show you where the mess hall is,” he says. “Alice likes it when everyone is on time, and supper starts at 5:30pm. We have about five minutes, so we better get over there.”

Turning away from me to join Nate at the door, John replies, “Well, it’s certainly good to start off on the right foot, hm?”

“Of course,” I answer, falling in step behind the two men as we head to go eat.

 **_Bunk beds._ ** I should have expected this, dammit.

_Dammit dammit dammit dammit dammit._


	2. I Hate Crisps.

We follow our bunkmate over to the dining hall, where the other counselors have already arrived and started loading their trays with cold cut sandwiches, crisps, and drinks. As we join the queue, John turns to throw me an expectant glance, his eyebrows high and lips quivering with a suppressed smirk. The smug expression on his face draws a scowl from me in return while I take a tray, knowing full well that he is teasing me for being forced to eat while on a case.

_Loathsome._

I grab a bag of crisps and some tea and take a seat at the table with him.

(I hate crisps. Why did I pick them? They make my fingers feel oily. I’ll smudge my magnifier. I should put them back.)

_Stop it. Suck it up._

(Maybe I’ll--)

“Eat,” John mutters under his breath before taking a bite of sandwich. He elbows me in the ribs when my only response is a pointed stare, then nods towards my tray. “Eat,” he repeats with a growl. With a grumble I pull the bag open and shake out a few crisps onto my tray, eyeing them with disdain. Another nudge from John and I start eating while Alice begins reviewing the camp schedules.

_Dull._

_Bunk beds. There’s always_ **_something_** _. Just like that bed and breakfast in Grimpen. I swear I may die of frustration for being forced to sleep so close to him. This entire..._ **_thing_ ** _...is ridiculous. He’s not--I can’t--_

_Hateful._

“And you lads will be joining us tonight, right?” Alice asks, staring at John and I.

Next to me, John nods, “Sounds like a fine time. Right, Bill?” and looks at me with barely veiled amusement.

“Of course,” I respond cautiously, trying to figure out what on earth everybody is talking about. And then, on the calendar in front of me--

**Counselor Icebreaker Bonfire 8pm**

_Oh. Right. ‘Getting to know you’ activities._

_Hateful._

Alice shuffles around for a moment, clearly looking for something, and then mutters, “That’s odd, I swear we had left some marshmallow roasting sticks here when we left last year. Do you remember, Nathaniel?” The man gets up and looks around with her, agreeing that he thought they had. I watch for a moment while finishing the last of my crisps as the pair looks, but ultimately comes up empty-handed.

_Pedestrian memory. Hmph. Why doesn’t everyone have a Mind Palace?_

Annoyed, I stare at John until he pops the last of his sandwich in his mouth with a cheeky grin at me, then hop up off my seat and walk away from the table to bin my rubbish, not bothering to say goodbye. I may be playing the part of Billy Scott, enthusiastic sailor and camp counselor, but that doesn’t mean I have to be overly friendly with... _them_.

“See you later! We’re off to explore!” my companion exclaims somewhat apologetically as he joins me. I throw a quick wave behind me and leave the mess hall with him in tow, taking a moment to gather preliminary information about the camp layout.

_Road enters the campgrounds from the northeast, curving around from the northwest to the staff cabins in the upper quadrant. Fifteen cabins for campers, total of 60 attendants each year. Cabins split by gender. Swimming, boating, and lifeguarding lessons occur at the lake, which is 1.2km southeast from the camper cabins. Archery and rifle range west of the lake, facing into the woods to provide an appropriate backstop for arrows and bullets. Woods border the camp on all sides--primary trees are oak, elm, and ash. Typical for United Kingdom countryside. Ropes course to the north, trails for hiking and survival skills south of the staff cabins, east of the lake by 0.75km._

(Close to John. Good.)

_Shouldn’t matter._

(Does.)

**_Shouldn’t!_ **

As we head toward the lake, I glare at him and complain, “I can’t believe you said we would go to that. I already know everything about them.”

John stops dead in his tracks for a moment and blinks, then snorts out a laugh. “You do _not_ know _everything_ about them. Also, don’t say that too loudly.”

“You know as well as I that the likelihood that the perpetrator is a camp counselor is incredibly high. Balance of probability, John. I just need to do a little investigating to finalize who the culprit is and then we can leave--,” I pause to slap at a mosquito on the back of my neck. “--this _abominable_ place. I don’t understand why we need to go to this... _event_.”

He continues walking next to me in a silence for a moment, the backs of our hands occasionally brushing against each other, then lets out a deep sigh. “We have to act the part, remember? We talked about this. We might have fun too, you know, roasting marshmallows and...”

_Fun?_

**_Slap!_ **

“John!” I shout, feeling the sting on my rear end from his strong hand.

_What--_

_He--_

_I don’t--_

**_What?!_ **

He chuckles under his breath, then apologizes, “Sorry, mosquito. S’pose we should’ve put the bug spray on before going on a stroll in the woods at dusk, hm?”

We continue walking along the path to the lake in the comfortable silence we’ve grown accustomed to, listening to the sounds of the songbirds in the trees and the breeze rustling the leaves high overhead. The sky starts shifting as the sun begins setting, casting swirls of pink, orange, and yellow that envelope the white stratocumulus clouds, making them glow. Right as the sky’s colours hit their peak, we arrive at the edge of the lake and are greeted with a magnificent sight. The water is as still as glass, reflecting the sky like a mirror. The trees on the far edge of the lake appear perfectly opposite their earthly counterparts in the still, deep waters.

_Stunning._

Next to me, John sighs happily and takes a seat in the grass, looking up at me through his lashes with a soft smile. “Join me,” he requests quietly, unwilling to shatter the hush around us.

I settle next to him, careful to put an appropriate amount of space between us (despite wanting to sit _much_ , **_much_ ** closer), and look out over the lake. Off to the right near some reeds, a great blue heron takes flight, gliding silently over the top of the water so closely that its primary feathers brush it occasionally, sending ripples in every direction.

John hums softly to himself and leans back onto his elbows, his legs crossed at the ankles. “Well, this is…,” he says, trailing off.

(Romantic?)

_Stop it! It’s only romantic when you’re intimate. We aren’t…_

(If we were, I could straddle his lap and--)

_Enough, dammit. It’s not even the end of the first day out here. What is wrong with me?!_

“Beautiful,” I finish for him with a strained smile. He glances at me, face a soft pink (clearly reflecting the sunset) and eyes more gold than the blue-hazel they usually are. Another hum and he faces the water again, his head dropping down onto the shoulder closest to me.

We sit until the sun has nearly dipped completely below the treeline. I spent the time counting my heartbeats and syncing my breath with his, albeit as silently as I could to ensure he didn't catch on.

_Pathetic._

As the fireflies start emerging, flashes of yellow-green appearing and disappearing faster than the blink of an eye, John lets out a thick (disappointed?) sigh and sits upright. “Best be off. Think I heard the sounds of an axe chopping some wood for our icebreaker. Wonder if anyone thought to bring a few pints?”

(Dammit, he remembered.)

_Of course he remembered, idiot. Why would he want to sit here all night with me?_

(Hoped he might.)

_Ridiculous._

I stand, brushing the grass from my pants and grumble, “Well, if we _must_ attend, I refuse to sit by anyone except you and I will not be singing ‘ _camp songs_ ’ or tolerating ‘ _scary stories_ .’ Real life is much scarier than any story these _people_ could possibly come up with.”

_Oh God. ‘Refuse to sit by anyone except you?’ What the hell is wrong with me?!_

Shaking my head, I reach a hand out to John to help him up, but end up pulling a bit too roughly. He nearly topples into me, but I catch him by the shoulders before it happens, and he flashes me a grin while still holding onto my hand. “I’m aware of that. I do live with you, you know.”

Narrowing my eyes at the jab, I turn away from him to start walking back toward the common area of the camp before his proximity affects me too much.

Suddenly, John’s hand grasps my forearm, stopping me in my tracks. “Don’t worry about Nate.”

“Why would I worry about him?” I ask. _What could possibly worry me about that imbecile?_

He releases me and inhales deeply. “Just...you don’t have to,” he says while he shakes his head.

“Do you know something about him I don’t, John? Should we be investigating him as our primary suspect? Though I can’t imagine I missed something, but I suppose I’ve been wrong before. What’s his motivation?” A cricket chirps loudly nearby, interrupting my line of questioning. The sky is completely dark now, the woods around us a blackened void.

John stares at me, blinking, before dissolving into a fit of giggles. “No, you idiot. I meant...I’ll make sure he leaves you alone, alright?” He pauses, staring at me with wide eyes. When I frown at him, he shakes his head, chuckling to himself some more. “You _must_ have noticed.”

“Oh,” I reply, deflated as I realize what he’s talking about. “You’re referring to his absurdly obvious sexual attraction to me.”

He coughs, rubbing the back of his neck while staring at his feet. “Um, yeah, that. I’ll...handle it, if you like. Make sure he doesn’t...you know. Bother you. Unless...”

“He doesn’t bother me,” I reply as we continue walking through the pitch black woods, the trail barely illuminated by the moonlight from above.

John scoffs. “Sherlock, he stares at you like a piece of meat, and he doesn’t know that you…,” he trails off and slows down, lagging behind.

I stop where I am and whirl around to face him, cursing the fact that we didn’t bother bringing any flashlights with us. _If only I could see his face._ “That I _what_?” I demand, trying not to sound defensive but failing miserably. The acid in my tone makes me wince, and I imagine John mirrored my expression when he heard it.

“That it’s...I don’t know, _not really your area_ , I guess. At least that’s what you told me. Having girlfriends, boyfriends, all that,” he responds sheepishly. Regretting he started this conversation at all, I imagine.

_Ah, an opportunity to set the record straight. Or...not, as it were._

“Actually I said having girlfriends was not really my area. I merely denied having a boyfriend.”

“Oh. So... right. Okay. I’ll just--do you--you don’t…,” he stammers, unable to catch up to his own thoughts.

Irritated with how this conversation is going, I snap, “Oh for God’s sake, John, I don’t find him attractive.” _He isn’t you!!_ “He’s a mouth breather because of undiagnosed sinus polyps who therefore snores like a bear and overcompensates for the size of his penis with his annoying bravado. Additionally he’s manipulative, hiding his sexuality so that he can stay in good graces with Alice, who fancies him and will someday leave the camp to him. Certainly not boyfriend material, going by typical social standards, wouldn’t you say?” _Not like_ **_you_** _._

John gapes, his mouth flopping open like a fish. “Oh, uh, okay. Right. So...then you...um...you have standards, then, for your...boyfriends? And...those are…?”

**_YOU._ **

I want to **scream**. “Well, I obviously don’t have a boyfriend and haven’t for a long time. But if I did, I suppose he would...”

 _Be_ **_YOU._ **

“There you two are! We were just settling in! Care for a pint?” Brenda calls as we approach the bonfire much faster than I expected us to. _Dammit. Too caught up in this awkward (and productive? Maybe?) conversation._

Beside me, John pauses and stares at me for a moment. The firelight flashes across his features, casting shadows and obscuring the true nature of his expression, and then he turns back to Brenda. “A pint sounds lovely, ta.”

“Great! Billy? Pint?” she asks me with a smile.

_Beer? Disgusting._

(Might get me out of this foul mood though…)

“Sounds great, Brenda,” I answer, John’s head whipping around in shock as I reach out to grab the Guinness offered to me.

The moment Brenda walks away, John leans in close to me. “Are you sure?” he whispers with a frown. He knows how much I abhor beer, disliking how it slows my thoughts and lowers my inhibitions.

( **Christ** he smells good, like woods and lake and--)

_Say something! Focus!_

“Course I'm sure, John. It’s an icebreaker. Let’s _break the ice_ , as it were,” I reply with a waggle of my eyebrows while clinking my beer can against his. He blinks twice, an unreadable expression on his face, before relaxing into a resigned grin.

“Let’s break the ice, then.”

* * *

I. Am. **Extraordinary**.

I _must_ be extraordinary--everyone is looking at me while I stand on this log, listening to my story. Even John! John is helping. _Oh_ , _John_ , **_my_** _John_.

“The police, the idiots that they are, had NO IDEA when or where the terrorist bomber might strike again. The brilliant detective had already saved...John, how many did he save? He saved some...you know, people, from...why, yes, Brenda, another Guiness is perfect, thanks! John!! How many!?” _Ooh, my head is all swimmy! Spectacular!_

John, lovely John, leans back against his log-bench-seat-thingy (not that comfortable, much too hard) and hums a lovely hummmmm. “Mmm, Sh-Billy,” _He called me Shbilly! Hah! He forgot I have a fake name right now, uh-oh! He must be drunk._ “I think he had saved...what, four? No, not four. The total was five, right?” he guesses before taking another long swig of his beer. I love his Adam’s apple. I would bite it if he let me. _Would I?_ I **would.**

 _Right, we’re talking. I’m...what am I...oh yes, I’m telling a story. A detective story._ “John, you’re ruining the story! Stop! Sh-spoil--you know.” _I’m going to sit down by him._ “Oof!”

“What?” he asks, leaning his head on my shoulder.

_He’s--_

_I--oh, oh God. Okay, okay_ **_yes_** _._

“Spoilers!” I said that really, _really_ loud, I think.

John is linking his arm with mine and shaking with giggles. _I’m going to_ **_die_** _._ “Hah, Bill, like the Doctor’s wife, right?”

“What? The doctor isn’t...you’re not...no. Not the doctor’s wife. Don’t be an idiot John. Shpoilers! Stop shpoiling the--how many...havetherebeen?”

“Three?” Alice offers, the sweet, kind, _brilliant_ lady that she is!

“Yes! Three! The perfect detective had saved three poor, pathetic...I mean, **_honestly_** , how did they even get captured in the first place? And the bombs? Were they high? Not the bombs, the bombs weren’t high, well, probably not anyway, I mean the--”

John is beaming at me. He _adores_ me! I should tell him.

“John, do you know how much I adore you? My sexy, angry John, I lo--”

 _Oh,_ **_NO._ **

**_I AM_ ** **_DRUNK_** ** _._ **

_No no no no no no no_

“--ve you, my John!”


	3. Bloody HOT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's get to know the the camp counselors and watch Sherlock sail a bit, shall we?
> 
> Oh, and see what the hell happens after Sherlock told John he loves him.

**_What?!_ **

_Oh. I'm awake._

_I was sleeping?!_

_Why was I sleeping? I'm on a case. I don't sleep on--_

**_What is wrong with my head? Dear God, it’s pounding like…_ **

_Oh. Dammit._

“Mmmrrph...ughhhhhhhhh, bloody hell, what... Sherlock?!”

 **John**. He's awake too. And…

“Sherlock, why are you...in my... _bed_?” he asks cautiously.

_?!????!!?!??!?!??_

_Breathe. Focus. There's a reason for this._

(The reason is that I've wanted this since the moment we met.)

 _Stop it. That's not why._ **_Focus dammit._ **

Headache indicative of dehydration. Body feels achy and sore. Bruise on my right ankle? Clothing... _regretfully_ intact. Memory essentially non-existent past the point Brenda handed me a Guiness. **_Great_** _._

“Um, well, judging by the fact that I'm clearly hungover, I would say it's likely that I thought in my inebriated state that climbing up to the top bunk was an impossible feat. You must have watched my attempts and taken pity on me,” I reply, rolling away from him and burying my head under the pillow. _This is humiliating._

I can feel John shift, turning towards me and placing a hand on my shoulder. “Hey…,” he starts. _Pity._ **_Disgusting_** _._ “So...last night…”

_Please don’t._

“John.”

“Sherlock, you--”

“I need the loo,” I snap, hoping to be rid of this situation entirely as quickly as possible.

“Uh...right. Okay. Fine, let me just--,” he mutters, moving away from me and nearly falling out of the bed. He stumbles to his feet and steps aside while I shimmy out from under the covers and all but run to the loo, avoiding all eye contact. Once inside the bathroom, my hands find my hair automatically, yanking at my curls. The pain shoots across my scalp, sharp and grounding.

_Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid!!_

Outside the bathroom, I can hear the creak of the cabin door, followed by a _slam!_

Then, silence.

My reflection in the mirror is startling--my skin is ghost white and my eyes are bloodshot, encased in dark circles. I can see the quick rise and fall of my heaving chest, my thin white tee--

(No. **John’s** tee.)

 _Dear_ **_God_ ** _in_ **_Heaven_ ** _I am wearing John’s tee shirt._

I don’t know whether to scream or pull a fistful of it up to my nose and inhale, so I settle for splashing some cold water on my face and reciting the periodic table to myself to calm my ridiculous heart. As I leave the bathroom, the sight of two paracetamol and a glass of water on the side table makes my throat close up.

(Take them. You need it.)

 _I don’t_ **_deserve_ ** _it._

I dress quickly and leave the cabin--and pain relief--behind, expecting we must have a morning meeting to go over the schedule. The air outside feels heavy from the humidity, and the sun is already high and stifling. As I approach the dining hall, I see John chatting with Brenda amiably over some coffee. He’s laughing and rubbing the back of his neck, a warmth on his face that is usually only directed at the women he is attempting to woo.

_Of course._

He glances my way and our eyes meet, something unreadable flickering across his face before he raises a hand to wave. “Billy!” he shouts, “join us!”

I force a smile and nod, then gesture toward the coffee pot. John shakes his head, smiling widely, and points at a second cup in front of him.

For me.

A peace offering? _Don’t-worry-mate-I-know-you-were-only-drunk-and-didn’t-mean-to-climb-into-bed-with-me_? Regardless, I feel the familiar tingles of adrenaline in my fingertips and change course to sit with him, choosing a seat opposite at the table. The briefest of frowns wrinkles his forehead as he stares at me, eyes roaming down my torso quickly. _He must have noticed I changed._

Alice stands up nearby, clapping her hands to draw our attention. “Good morning counselors! Today is all about prep. I expect each of you to spend the day becoming familiar with your respective work areas and gear. You all know what you need to do to get ready, I'm sure. By lunchtime I want you to feel ready for an inspection with me. This afternoon we will split up the cabins and get them opened up and check for any concerns with the plumbing, interiors, and security. Any questions?”

There's a generally positive murmur amongst the group, and Alice smiles widely. “Campers arrive tomorrow between 8 and 10. Today is the day to get it all done. Let me know if you need help. I have walkies here on the table to help with cross camp communication. Try to keep the line clear of chatter. Have a good morning everyone!” She glances at Nate, who nods and stands up. “You'll help Billy get his gear prepped, right?” she asks.

“Course, it'll be my pleasure!” he responds with a wide grin. “Billy, you ready to head to the lake?”

John reaches across the table to rest his hand on my forearm, his grip firm. The look in his eyes says it all-- _I'll handle him. Say the word._ Though every part of me hates to be stuck with this idiot all morning, I know that John and I will cover more ground if we split up. I have no firm leads yet, but the odds are high that the perpetrator is one of the counselors here. We need more info, and he knows it. I shake my head at him and go to remove my arm, but he tightens his grip for a moment before releasing me.

“Billy?” Nate calls, waggling a walkie in the air for me.

“Coming,” I reply, shooting John one last look before walking away.

_Maybe some distance will be good for us._

“So, John, care if I come along and show you the trails you'll be using? I have very little prep to do in the ropes course since we don't take it down, and I would love to hear about the different stuff you are going to do with the campers. Being in the army certainly makes you the most qualified person we’ve had for survival skills!” I hear Brenda exclaim as I grab the walkie from Nate.

“Sure, would love the company,” John says cheerfully.

_I hate it._

_He's much too happy about this._

**_Fine_** _. It’s all just_ **_fine._ **

“Nate, I'm looking forward to getting to know you,” I say just loudly enough that I know John heard.

_Am I trying to make him jealous?_

(Why would he be jealous?)

_He isn't._

Without a backward glance, I follow Nate out of the dining hall and down the trail that leads to the lake. “So,” he starts, walking a bit too close to me. “You and John have an interesting relationship.”

_Ugh, not now._

“Yes, and I’d rather not discuss it. Do you know where the sailboats are kept?”

Nate makes a harrumphing noise and points at a building in the woods about 30 metres from the lake. “In there. We haven’t had a sailing instructor in several years, so we might need to clean them off. That’s also where we keep the buoys and lines, so we’ll need to grab all of it. The boats are--”

“Sunfish,” I interrupt. “Typical for small lake sailing, especially given the camp size and budget. Small enough to be inexpensive, easy to replace, and light enough to carry back and forth. Adequate for two sailors, ensuring increased safety. You and I should be able to get all 10 of them down to the water in about twenty minutes, and then I’ll rig one up and chart the lake.”

“How did you…,” Nate asks slowly, looking at me in disbelief.

“Oh, I just...do that,” I flash him a grin, hoping to distract him. It works, and he smiles back, leaning closer to me and reaching for the door.

“Well, it’s certainly impressive,” he murmurs as he unlocks the padlock. “Oh, um, I think we have charts in here, so--”

“I like to do my own charting. Never know when the cartographer was distracted and therefore inaccurate,” I respond. He stares at me much too closely for a moment-- _pupils dilated, increased salivation, vasodilation--_ and then pushes the door open.

Immediately, the musty smell of disuse and mildew assaults my nostrils. The building is the size of a two car garage, filled to the brim with small sailboats, bags of rigging, PFDs, and various lines and buoys. There’s a few streams of light from some high, single pane windows near the ceiling which cast beams inside the room, filled with the dancing particulate of disrupted dust and mold spores.

_Disgusting._

“Even if there were charts in here, I doubt that they have survived the damp. They’re certainly covered with black mold, and not worth keeping. If you come across them, _burn them_ , Nate,” I recommend as I start picking through the piles of junk. “This is going to take more than a morning to prepare unless I have considerable help.”

“Well,” Nate says with a flourish of his hands. “I’m at your disposal! What first?”

“Just start grabbing every bag you see and throwing it out into the sunshine. We need to air out all the rigging so we don’t inadvertently overdose our campers with mold and mildew.”

Beside me, Nate snorts out a laugh. “Yeah, they get enough of that in the cabins.”

* * *

After a couple of hours, Nate and I were able to lay out all of the sails and rigging, carry the sunfish down to the beach, sort through the buoys and lines, and discard the PFDs that weren’t worth saving. I learned about his past--only child, raised by extremely religious parents in a small community in the northern UK with little access to outside ideas. The moment he was able to escape the oppression, he left with a one way train ticket and made his way to London. He lives there now with his two cats, working as a school teacher for UK history. He spent the majority of time we worked telling me his entirely _dull_ life story and successfully convinced me that he's likely **not** the culprit for the missing children. Then again, I _suppose_ I could be wrong.

**_I'm not._ **

“Leave the doors to this building open. Are there any additional windows or doors that we can open for increased ventilation? This entire structure needs to air out before I store any of these items in here again,” I comment, plopping down onto the grass for a rest.

Nate looks around inside, then shakes his head. “Nope. Nothing. Guess we’ll just have to hope that having this door open is enough.” He walks over and sits down next to me, leaning back on his hands. The sun feels suddenly too hot--I hadn’t noticed it while we were working. Beads of sweat roll down my forehead, dampening my curls and stinging my eyes. I yank at the hem of my shirt and use it to wipe my face, feeling barbaric as I do so.

While we cleaned, I had forgotten about the case, being transported back to many times I’ve spent in my young adulthood sorting through boat rigging and sails in order to be out on the water. Even now, the thought of going out on this lake and feeling the light tumbling of the boat beneath my feet seems like a panacea. On the water, everything is different. _No_ , not just different-- _better_. _Everything is just_ **_better_**.

The static over the radio breaks my reverie, and a _very_ familiar voice says, “This is John. All set over at survival skills and the ropes course. Anyone need help finishing up? Over.”

I snatch it up, but--

_Too eager. Weak._

Clipping it to my belt, I push off of the grass and stalk off towards the boats. I _need_ to be on the water. I grab a sail and some rigging, chuck it into the sunfish, and call back to Nate, “Help me put this boat at the water’s edge.”

After getting it moved and rigged, I wave him off and place both hands on the stern, ready to shove it off of the beach and hop in.

“Wait! Don’t you want some paper? I thought you were going to chart the lake?” Nate asks from the grass.

_Paper. Quaint._

I don’t bother with the reply, instead pushing the boat out until it floats freely and hop in. I take the small paddle and get a bit further out on the lake before sliding the centerboard down into place in the hull for stability. There’s enough of a breeze that the mainsail catches immediately, billowing out tightly and pulling me away from shore. Stowing the paddle, I sit on the gunnel and grasp the lines for the mainsail and jib, riding the quick breeze out onto open water. My hair flies behind my head as my eyes well up in the wind, tears streaming down my cheeks while the boat heels and my back nearly touches the water.

Making my way around the edges of the lake, I ride the wind as much as I can before I need to tack, the boom snapping around at the last moment as I catch a new gust. As I learn the lake, I’m careful to store the information in a new file in my Mind Palace--a large rock here, a dead zone there, and absolutely no evidence of any underwater burials. Everything I need to properly teach the teens to sail safely.

With the wind flapping my shirt, I hardly notice how hot the sun is as it rises high overhead. A final tack takes me back towards shore and I see two figures on the edge of the lake. One of them is my morning companion, with his lanky figure and dark brown, choppy hair. The other is…

_Oh. John._

The crackle of the radio on my belt startles me, even though I watched John raise his hand to his mouth. “John here. Billy, are you coming back for lunch? Over.”

Suddenly, a gust catches my mainsail just right, throwing my boom around and I’m suddenly caught in irons and cursing myself. _If I hadn’t been so distracted!_ Taking a breath, I pull at my lines to try to escape the dead zone, but to no avail.

Another burst of static, and then, “Stuck?” with a giggle.

With a snarl, I snatch at my walkie and reply, “I’d like to see you try to do this, John,” with venom in my voice.

The response is immediate. “Love for you to teach me.”

“Perhaps I will,” I answer, feeling a tingle in my chest at our banter.

My curls lick at my ears as the wind changes, the mainsail beginning to flap and pull a bit more than it had been moments ago. I clip the walkie back onto my belt and wait, the lines for both sails in my hands while I stare at the sheet, waiting for the right moment...and…

**_Now!_ **

I throw my weight and pull at lines and the mainsail goes taut again, filling out entirely and pulling me along faster than any of the previous travel around the lake. I’m grinning at the steady movement of the water beneath me as I sail towards shore.

(Towards John.)

_Shut up._

A raft of ducks floating nearby startles, their loud quacks of irritation filling the air as they fly up around the boat. A hearty chuckle bubbles up from deep within me, a sound I only seem to emit while on the water.

(Or with John.)

 _I mean it,_ **_shut up!_ **

I’m finally within shouting distance of shore, so John cups his hands around his mouth and hollers, “Let me know what to do!”

Maneuvering the craft carefully towards shore, I tie down the lines and pull up the centerboard before going too shallow. The mainsail and jib sheets drop easily, and before long I’m paddling the rest of the way towards shore. As I get closer, I throw a line to John, who catches it handily (unsurprising given his excellent reflexes and hand-eye coordination) and pulls. At this distance, the sheen of sweat on his body is evident while his biceps bulge with the strain of pulling me onto the beach. With a splash, I hop out of the boat and help, pushing from the gunnel until the boat feels properly secured.

“Sher--that was--I didn’t know you could do that,” John stutters breathlessly, his face pink and eyes wide. “I mean, I knew you could sail, but...not... _like that_ ,” he adds sheepishly. “Though I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, since you seem to do everything better than anyone else.”

“Not _everything_ ,” I reply cautiously, unsure of where we stand after last night.

“Yeah, that was impressive!” Nate adds, clapping me on the shoulder and squeezing affectionately.

John throws him a side-eye, his jaw working as he clenches his teeth. Resisting the urge to swallow him up in a hug, I lean in close to his ear and whisper, “Dentist, John.” He snaps out of it, looking away as he fights a grin.

“Prick,” he replies, a snort of laughter huffing out through his nose.

“Lunch?” I ask with a quirk of my eyebrow.

“Starving.”

“Yeah, that seems like a--” Nate comments, but I miss the rest of it while John and I start walking away together.

Under his breath, John mutters, “That guy just won’t get the hint. Can we just arrest him now and be done with it?”

“Arrest him for what, John? Being attracted to me?”

My companion scoffs loudly.“Surely he’s the--”

“Nope,” I interrupt, shaking my head. The sun is really beating down on us, the heat so intense that both John and I are a bit breathless.

“Aw, come on! _Really?”_

“Really,” I reassure while wiping sweat from my upper lip. “Any luck on your end?”

The thrill of investigation, gathering data, puzzling it out with John at my side is _heady_. I feel **_aliv_** _ **e!**_

“No, Brenda definitely isn’t it. She’s been doing this camp as well as others throughout the country for ages, but this is her primary gig. There would have been other disappearances at other camps, right? Did you see anything like that?” he answers, shaking his head and running a hand through his sweat-damp hair.

“Hm. No. Perhaps this afternoon we can split up again for cabin cleaning and pair up with some of the folks we don’t know much about yet. The red head and the cranky one have been relatively quiet.”

“Melissa and Lily,” John corrects with a soft laugh.

Waving my hand in his direction, I contradict, “Irrelevant.”

“You know, sometimes I just don’t know what to do with you,” he says, shaking his head.

“I…”

(...have a _file_ of things you could do to me.)

_Stop it._

John stops in his tracks. “What's that?” he asks, staring at me.

Blink. Blink again.

_I--_

_Uh--_

_I--_

“It's nothing.”

“Hmm.”

* * *

Everything smells like mildew and it's _bloody_ **_hot_** _._ It's _never_ this hot in London. It must be the humidity from the nearby lake and the fact that the wind in these woods never seems to _bloody_ move. John and I ate lunch together in the shade of a rather large elm tree, hoping the catch some form of relief. Sadly, we only ended up drenched in sweat and covered in ants, which ended our lunch prematurely.

Alice informed us that she would be spending the afternoon inspecting our various activity areas for safety, and left us to begin cabin cleaning and inspecting. I was paired with Melissa, who, while friendly enough, was particularly disengaged in conversation with me and stuck to our task.

The afternoon passed quickly, and John and I decided to take another walk down to the lake after supper to watch the sunset and recap the day.

“Nothing!” I shout once we’re out of earshot of any other counselors.

“Sherlock--,” John starts, a hand on my arm.

Brushing him off, I throw my hands in the air and continue my rant. “ ** _Nothing_** , John! There is not a single scrap of evidence pointing to these missing teens. None of the counselors seems particularly guilty or malicious and there is no clear evidence in the cabins of any signs of struggle or forced abduction. Hell, you wouldn’t even know anyone went missing if it hadn’t been reported!” As we reach the lakebed, I plop down in the grass and start plucking individual blades to shred into pieces.

“Sherlock, you’re hot and tired. You’ve been busy today doing a lot more physical activity than you usually do and you’re probably still a bit hungover to boot. Give it a rest, we’ll pick it up again tomorrow,” he consoles, settling next to me. Our shoulders bump as he sits and he doesn’t bother moving away, allowing them to rest against each other. The point of contact could very well be on fire for how much I feel focused on it, and it irritates me to no end.

“I’m missing something,” I whine, slumping against him.

There’s a few moments of delay until he reacts, and then--

_What?_

_He’s--_

_His arm is--_

(Yes yes yes yes yes)

_No no no why is he what is he I don’t understand what--_

“You’ll find it. You always do,” he responds, his arm still wrapped around my shoulders.

_I--_

_Okay. Fine, yes. Good, even. Yes,_ **_good_** _._


	4. It's Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The campers arrive!  
> More case development.  
> Sherlock is an idiot.  
> Then again, so is John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some terms/phrases used in this chapter that are defined in the footnotes.

I’m laying on the top bunk, eyes wide, as the first tendrils of sunshine creep through the window on the far side of the cabin. While I’m not entirely sure, it’s possible that in my exhaustion and compromised mental state that I slept for an hour or two. _Two_ consecutive nights--must be the air.

My stomach makes an _embarrassing_ sound, gurgling loudly enough to drown out the early morning birdsong, and I hear a snort from below me. “Shut up,” I command, and the snort turns into a silent, huffing chuckle. Our companion in the cabin grumbles, rolling away from us in his bunk and burying himself inside his blankets with a contented sigh.

In the night, as I lay awake listening to John’s rhythmic breathing, I considered alternatives to my original hypothesis. I went about this _all wrong_ , hyper-focused on one particular cause and ignoring potential others without any data. _Must have been distracted_. Potential reasons for teens disappearing include abduction by known persons (counselors, family members, friends); abduction by unknown persons (serial killers, fetishists, cultists); natural disasters (drowning, injury, illness, getting lost); and voluntary disappearance (running away). Location of disappearance is the common denominator (this particular summer camp) and therefore indicates cause of disappearance must be related _to the location_. It’s unlikely that a string of disappearances would occur in one place and be completely unrelated. As my brother likes to remind me, _the universe is rarely so lazy_.

This is the only summer camp that has had any disappearances in this area. Initial investigation of the counselors has revealed that while _annoying_ , none of them seem particularly prone to abduction and murder. Pre-case data gathering showed that the victims, while together at a summer camp, had no previous ties to each other either in location, schooling, family, or friends, making it unlikely that any _other_ known persons might be the culprit for the disappearances. Further investigation is needed into the possibility of unknown persons with a predilection for abducting 13-17 year olds and ability to tolerate the obvious perils of dealing with a pubescent and therefore naturally _moody_ population.

My path around the lake yesterday provided very little evidence of the likelihood of drowning, and...

_Uh--_

_He’s--_

...usually if someone drowns, there are witnesses…

_Why is he--_

“Billy, you going to get dressed?” John asks. Shirtless. In…

 **_PANTS_** _._

_Slept 5 hours (usual)--feeling peckish, wants coffee (will add milk today for more calories) and toast--has he been working out when I’m not home?--scar, I’ve never seen--why is he only wearing--the likelihood that all the children have drowned is low, considering--_

“Alice said the kids are arriving between 8 and 10, so we need to get some breakfast and coffee beforehand so we can help prep,” he adds, then drops his voice substantially. “And I know how little you ate yesterday, and I refuse to deal with your cranky arse because you have hypoglycemia,” he finishes menacingly, hands on his ( _still just_ **_pants_** ) hips.

(Christ. Is he trying to kill me?)

_He's just changing. Get it together._

“Yes, all right _mummy_ ,” I respond with sass. Staring at him with narrowed eyes, I slide into an upright position, feet dangling over the edge of the mattress and the sheet covering my lap (thankfully). He meets my eyes, unfazed, before he smirks and turns away to put his shirt on while walking toward the loo with a hum.

(New hum?)

_Must have heard it before. Check the database--_

(New hum.)

( **New hum.** )

_Doesn’t mean anything._

**(Means** **_everything!_ ** **)**

_Nothing. It’s nothing. Stop it. Just get ready._

We get dressed independently ( _irritating_ ) and before we leave, John throws a hard kick at Nathaniel’s bunk. “Should probably get up,” he says loudly as we walk out and Nathaniel flails around in his sheets, startled into wakefulness by the jolt. John snorts, and I smile to myself.

The air outside the cabin is almost cool, a slight breeze kissing my cheeks and toying with the curls on my forehead. John and I walk in silence, listening to the myriad of cricket calls and birdsong echoing through the woods around us. The sun is low in the sky, not quite hot enough to be a nuisance yet.

“We should check in with Lestrade,” John murmurs under his breath once we’re a distance away from the cabins.

With a sigh, I mutter, “And tell him what, John? That we have nothing?”

“At the very least we can tell him that the counselors probably aren’t at fault. He’s been doing some background checks for us,” he answers, kicking at a loose stone in the path. The side of the dining hall comes into view as we round the bend, the sun reflecting off the windows and hitting us right in the eyes.

“Useless.”

“Oh? And what would _you_ have him do?” he demands.

Opening the file in my Mind Palace, I scan through the various hypotheses I’ve developed in the night and remember the information needed on the local folklore and possibility of unknown abductors. John stops short of walking around the building, awaiting my answer with his hands perched on his hips. “I’ll call him after breakfast,” I answer, moving to walk past him.

“ **Sherlock** ,” he growls, catching my forearm.

My stomach leaps into my throat, making it difficult to swallow.

 _Stop it, stomachs can’t leap._ **_Irrational_** _._

“This is what we talked about before,” John adds, his voice dangerous and hand squeezing. “Include me, please. I am--”

(John I want to include you in _everything,_ you have **no** **clue!** )

“Not a _gopher_. I recall. My apologies. I need him to check the local area for folklore and other types of disappearances to determine whether an outside person or group is abducting the children,” I mutter under my breath, aware of our proximity to the dining hall (and each other).

He loosens his grip but doesn’t release me, face softening as he understands. “We’ve eliminated the possibility of known persons, time to move to unknowns.” (So, _so_ clever.) “Right. I’m sure during the registration today one of us can slip away to Alice’s cabin to make the call, it ought to be busy enough. Code phrase?”

John and his codes, ever the soldier. There’s something inherently sexy about when he says _Vatican Cameos_. Clearly I associate sex with adrenaline and danger. (Does he?)

_Irrelevant. He’s not gay._

(If he were, the number of times we would have--)

_Not now, not now!_

“How about _time for gooseberries_?” he suggests with a smirk, catching my eye. I smile with him, and before long we are giggling together at the absurdity and appropriateness of the phrase. Decidedly unsexy, of course, but appropriate. _The last thing I need is another reason to find John horribly attractive._ “Anything else you want him to do?” he asks when we recover, hand _still_ on my arm.

With a shrug and strict determination to ignore my racing heart and pointed focus on where he’s _touching_ me, I reply, “I suppose he could look into the backgrounds of the victims to ensure there are no links between them that were missed by the local squad. While he regularly disappoints me with his lack of thorough investigation, he certainly does a better job than most. _Something_ has been overlooked, and _that’s_ going to be what we need to solve this case.”

“Understood,” he agrees with a curt nod, finally removing his hand and holding it in a tight fist at his side. “Let’s have some breakfast, hm?”

Something happens between us. It lasts so briefly that if I didn’t trust my own senses implicitly I would think I’m imagining it.

(It feels like--)

_It isn’t._

Breakfast passes without incident. John glares at me until I eat some toast with jam, while he has a hard boiled egg with his. (Milk in his coffee. Unsurprising.) At a quarter to 8, we bin our rubbish and head to the gates with the rest of the counselors to greet the campers and get them sorted to their cabins. Alice runs everything with the grace of experience, assigning jobs to each of us and welcoming the families with smiles.

Before long, John comes up to my table where I’m handing out class schedules, sweat dripping off the end of his nose, and says, “Billy-- _time for gooseberries_ \--Alice forgot something in her cabin, so I’m going to grab it. Need anything? Water?”

Swiping the back of my hand across my brow, I concede, too hot to be stubborn, “I suppose. Perhaps a rag of some kind to wipe my face with? It’s stifling.”

John nods, then leans over the table towards me and brushes an errant, damp curl out of my eyes. My heart pounds in my chest as I stare him in the eyes, my breath suddenly too short.

(There’s that look again.)

_Nothing, it’s nothing. John is just...being John._

He lingers an extra moment, then clears his throat. “Fine, yeah. I’ll just--” A hard swallow. “Water and a rag. I’ll be back in a mo.”

I stare at him as he walks away, my thoughts ping-ponging around my head and my fingertips tingling while I continue to hand out schedules and maps to incoming campers.

* * *

It’s been a few days, and everyone is settling into their routines. Lestrade has been investigating surrounding areas for additional missing children, the presence of cultists, sexual deviants, and serial murders, or any potential commonalities between the victims not initially discovered by the local police. Yesterday I was able to make a call to him, but he had nothing to report. Apparently, the camp we’re at is in the middle of an unpopulated woodland area that stretches for miles, making it even _less_ likely that the children have been abducted.

The lack of leads and information is _infuriating_.

Despite my frustration, I suppose I’m enjoying myself here in some respects. It feels like the camp exists in a bubble isolated from the rest of the world, where the scent of mildew and the repetitive food options have become normal. John and I continue watching the sunset at the lake after supper, then take meandering walks through the campgrounds before retiring for the evening. The little _moments-that-feel-like-something-but-are-nothing_ continue in increasing frequency, and I’m starting to wonder if I’m going **mad**. I suppose it’s possible I could have been infected with _vibrio vulnificus_ , though I’m fairly certain I have no open wounds currently. Another possibility is _trypanosoma cruzi_ , but I have yet to hear of any tsetse flies found in the UK. A third option is that I’m suffering from some very late-onset psychosis, which is causing me to hallucinate these moments entirely and be delusional enough that I believe them.

(When one has eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true.)

_Don’t be an idiot._

As we emerge from the wooded trail leading toward the cabins after our usual evening stroll, the sounds of raised voices reach us.

“I can’t _believe_ you’re saying I’m being insensitive about this! If anything, I’m trying to be overly sensitive to _everyone’s_ needs, _Melissa_ ,” we hear Alice state firmly.

John looks my direction and frowns, body automatically tensing in case he needs to spring into action. I gesture for him to wait, and without further communication we both creep forward slowly, keeping some trees between us and the cabins. The two women are standing outside of Alice’s cabin in the warm glow of the porch light, surrounded by the bugs attracted to the beacon. In the trees, there’s the scream of cicadas, which suddenly seem much louder now that we’re trying to be so silent.

“I don’t understand why this is even an issue, Alice,” Melissa retorts. “Just let him swap cabins. What’s the worst that could happen? He’ll probably just makes sure he changes in the bathroom anyway. Heck, you can even **_tell_ ** him to **_make sure_ ** he changes in the bathroom if you’re so concerned about it.”

Alice shakes her head, rolling her eyes and looking up at the sky in frustration. “Melissa, you’re telling me to put a teenage girl in a bunk with a bunch of teenage boys!”

“I most certainly am NOT saying that. I’m saying that Joe requested to be put with his own gender because he doesn’t feel comfortable staying with the girls,” the other woman replies, hands on her hips. Next to me, John lets out a sigh and shakes his head, a hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. I watch him, confused, and then--

“Transgender,” he whispers.

 _Of course_. The teen must have confided in Melissa (easily the most approachable person on the staff) and requested the bunk change. _Why didn’t his parents--_

**_Oh._ **

Parents aren't aware. Right.

“And _how_ do I explain it if anything happens to the parents of...Joe?” Alice asks, voice wavering. “Especially with-- _God,_ Melissa, I just can’t take another--”

The younger woman sighs and places a hand on Alice’s arm, the fight in her suddenly gone. “I know, Al, I know. None of us want _anything_ to happen to these kids. I just...I just know how important it is for kids this age to feel accepted by their peers, and Joe is feeling totally isolated like this. _Ostracized_. He said that the girls in the bunk aren’t being very kind to him. I just thought maybe...I don’t know. I know it’s a tough decision,” she says quietly, a tear rolling down her cheek.

Alice leans against her cabin door with a loud sigh. “Mis, don’t--just...let me sleep on it, okay? We can talk about it in the morning with the rest of the counselors and make a decision as a team about it,” she reassures with a sad smile. “I’m not saying no, I just really want to have more input on this before deciding. Things have been going so well this year, and...well…”

Melissa nods, wiping away her tears with the tips of her fingers. “Yeah, hate to ruin a good thing, right? I know you’re working hard. We all are. Let’s talk in the morning, like you said, at breakfast.”

John’s hand on my arm startles me, drawing a breathless chuckle from him. He tugs at me, pulling me away from the women who are hugging and crying ( _ugh_ ) and we head back to the path to our cabin. Loudly, he says, “I’m ready for bed. These kiddos tire me out with all their questions! _Mr. John, how do you make a teepee?_ Why anyone would want to make a teepee for shelter is beyond--” He pauses as we come into view of the ladies, who pull apart and wave. “Oh, hullo Alice, Melissa. Sorry, didn’t mean to disturb you.”

They shake their heads and smile, Melissa pulling away from Alice and waving at us sheepishly. “No, just heading to bed ourselves,” she says before entering the cabin. The older woman nods, then waves and follows her inside abruptly, still wiping away a few stray tears.

John and I share a look, then enter our own cabin for the night. He sleeps soundly, his snores from below lulling me into a soft, dreamy doze filled with hazy dreams of strong hands and gentle, blue-hazel eyes. I keep waking at the wrong moments, and grow increasingly frustrated as dawn approaches. Eventually I give up entirely on trying, knowing that these dreamy moments are a falsehood, just like whatever keeps _not-happening_ between us.

I dress before he wakes and sit outside on the step until he joins me, watching the grey sky give way to yellow-pink streaks as the birds sing _too_ loudly, welcoming the new day.

Breakfast that morning is tense as the counselors discuss whether to allow the transgender young man to stay with the other young men. After nearly 5 minutes of back and forth, I can’t stand the debate any longer and slam my coffee down with a loud _thunk_. Everyone stops and stares, John throwing me a warning glare.

“What does it matter? If they’re gay, if they’re straight, if they’re one gender or the other, what does it _really_ matter? They’re teenagers, and they’re going to do whatever it is their hormones tell them to. Stop trying to make it more complicated than that and let the poor boy sleep where he feels comfortable,” I snap at them.

Immediately, Nathaniel nods enthusiastically. “Well said, Billy! Exactly what I was thinking.”

Alice, an alarmed look on her face from my outburst, glances around the table at the rest of the counselors, who seem to be in agreement. “Well, if everyone thinks this way, then…?”

Lily, who has barely spoken more than two sentences around me, says quietly, “I don’t think it matters, like Billy says. If he wants to switch, let him switch.”

“It’s settled then,” Alice comments, her voice firm. She's clearly the type to follow through on a decision once she's made it. “Miss, will you let Joe know for me?”

Her cabin-mate nods and stands, adding, “I’ll help him move his stuff over too while everyone’s at breakfast. That way it’s an easy transition.” With that, she walks off in the direction of the camper cabins, a smile on her face at her victory.

The rest of the counselors break into idle chatter as they finish their breakfasts, Brenda turning to John with raised eyebrows. “So, John, what do you think about all this? How often do you see this in your medical practice?”

(I hate how she looks at him.)

_She looks at him like anyone else might. He’s attractive and friendly._

(I hate it.)

_Possessive. Not mine. Stop it!_

**(Mine.)**

_STOP IT._

John swallows the rest of his coffee and shrugs. “Occasionally, I suppose. Honestly, I’m just a GP, so these issues don’t come up that often when I’m diagnosing influenza and hemorrhoids,” he replies with a chuckle.

Beside him, Brenda laughs too loudly and touches him arm, and I just--

 **CAN’T**.

Standing abruptly, I mutter, “Good day,” and stalk off towards the lake. Behind me, I can barely hear John as he calls after me and scrambles to get up from his chair. I’m walking too quickly, and soon outpace his ability to catch up unless he runs.

 _I don’t care._ _Let him flirt with her all he likes._

_Maybe he’ll sneak out to her cabin, too. That’s why he wanted the bottom bunk, obviously. Easier to leave without me noticing._

(Why would he care if I notice?)

 _He doesn’t._ ** _He wouldn’t_** _._ ** _It_** **_doesn’t_** **_matter_** _._

I hear him in my mind saying the same phrase he’s **always** said:

_“We’re not a couple.”_

That’s right, John. We’re **not** a couple.

And I have a case to solve so we can get out of this **bloody** place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Gooseberry can mean a kind of berry, but it also has a very specific definition found only in the Oxford English Dictionary and Webster’s Unabridged from 1934: _A chaperon, esp. one who is indulgently unobservant; as, to play gooseberry; a superfluous third person_
> 
> About the word  
> In The Hound of the Baskervilles, a romantic meeting between Sir Henry Baskerville and Miss Stapleton takes place despite Holmes’s strict orders that Sir Henry never leave Watson’s sight because of the curse of the “fiend dog.” Sir Henry insists he must go alone, saying to Watson, in dialogue that was invented for the TV version (with Jeremy Brett as Holmes and Edward Hardwicke as Watson): “You’d make a very civil gooseberry, but no—I’m afraid I have to go alone.” Since the scene is recounted in a letter from Watson to Holmes in the original story, this word choice represents a charming piece of faux Victorian English."  
> * * *  
>  _vibrio vulnificus_ :waterborne Gram-negative bacterium present in brackish water that can cause hallucinations and enters the body via an open wound or through ingestion  
> * * *  
>  _trypanosoma cruzi_ :parasites found in Africa that are transmitted via tsetse fly bites


	5. We Aren't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes a spectacular dumbass of himself.  
> Also: BAMF!John makes an appearance!!

“Billy? Are you okay?” Nate calls from his crouch next to the lifeguard tower. I stalk past him to snatch a bag of rigging and throw it onto the beach. “Billy?” He abandons his task (misplaced some rope-- _typical_ ) and follows me. “Hey!”

Whirling around, I snap, “What, Nathaniel?” The prickling behind my eyes is hateful. I just need to rig a boat and get onto the water. I need to clear my head. I need to _think_.

_I need a bloody cigarette._

(John would be furious.)

_All the more reason. Should have stopped at the cabin._

“You’re upset,” he remarks (as if it weren’t painfully obvious) with a hand on my arm to stop me. “Wanna talk about it?”

 _Unnecessary. Talking is_ **_boring_** _._

“It’s John, isn’t it? You two have a domestic?” he suggests, moving closer to me. “I know, you’d _rather not talk about it_ , right?” Staring at him, I shake my head and move to raise the mast. He shifts to get under it with his shoulder, helping me stand it upright and slot it into the hull with a _shhunnk_.

Once we get the boat rigged completely, I nod at him and say, “Thanks.”

(He’s being kind. Perhaps I should--)

With a sigh, I add, “We don’t have _domestics_. We aren’t…”

 _Together? In a relationship? Boyfriends? Partners?_ **_In love_** _?_

“We **aren’t** ,” I finish with a grimace.

Nate watches me, a pitying frown on his face, and replies, “I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

My heart is pounding painfully behind my ribs, threatening to shatter me entirely as it reverberates through my body. A tightness closes around my throat, making it difficult to breathe. My eyes are burning. There’s a hollow behind my sternum that aches, and _Christ I need to get on this bloody boat._

“He’s an idiot for not seeing it,” Nate adds, a hand resting on my shoulder as he leans closer to me. The distance between us is closing rapidly, his eyes are sliding shut--

_He’s trying to--_

_He wants..._

_I_ **_want_ ** _this. I could imagine it’s John, come to reassure me. Come to save me from my self-loathing and show me how much he_ **_loves me_ ** _and_ **_needs me_** _. I could imagine it. I might even believe it._

I can smell him, he’s so close. It smells wrong--not the British Sterling and cedar soap I’ve come to associate with John. _I can pretend, I know his scent._ He’s a few centimetres away from me, his lips parted and breath thready. Time has slowed, and I--

 _It’s John. It’s the John that won’t love me,_ **_can’t_ ** _love me the way I want._

_The way I need._

(Don’t do this.)

**_Too late_** **.**

“Oi!” I hear from behind. Immediately the hot prickles of embarrassment crawl up my neck, flushing my cheeks and making my scalp tingle. I pull away from Nathaniel, my lips still slick with his saliva, and shut my eyes for a moment while I try my damnedest to breathe. _“What’s this, then_?” John shouts, his feet thumping hard on the ground as he marches up to us.

“It’s none of your business, that’s what it is,” Nathaniel snaps. He whips around to face John, arms crossed over his chest as he stands between us. “Why don’t you leave us be, mate?”

John stops dead, planting his feet and cocking his head to the side. His eyes grow cold as he growls, “ **No**.” Though at least a half-head taller than John in actuality, Nathaniel seems much smaller in the shadow of John’s rage.

“John,” I choke out, my voice sounding strangled. “I--”

“No, _Bill_ , I'm tired of this! Nate has been undressing you with his eyes since you met him, and frankly it's just _unacceptable_ ,” John insists, sounding sick to his stomach in anger.

Nate waves his arms in front of him in an effort to disarm John, clearly intimidated by him. “Whoa, mate, from what Billy just told me you have _no_ claim here. Maybe you should just back off.”

“I'm not your _mate_ , Nathaniel, and I would appreciate it if you would _get out of my way_ ,” John demands. “Seems my companion and I have some things to discuss.”

Nathaniel glances back at me, then at John, and finally raises his hands in defeat. “Look, I'm not interested in getting in the middle of some sort of lovers’ quarrel, or whatever it is you two are having. Billy, we’ll talk some more later, all right?” With that, he sidesteps out of John’s path and strides off, shaking his head and muttering to himself about _bloody bastards_ and _drama queens._

The moment he’s out of earshot, John stares me down, jaw clenched and vein in his forehead pulsing. “What the bloody hell was _that_ , Sherlock?!” he hisses, hands clenched around his hip bones.

“I'm not a child, John,” I snap angrily, turning away from him. I don’t need him to berate me for my pathetic lapse in judgment--I’ll handle it myself. I just want to get on this boat and sail away from _everything_ , before I do anything else stupid.

He grabs my bicep, stopping me from stalking off, and pulls me to him. We’re standing so close that I can hear his breath huffing through his nostrils. If I lean down, I could press my lips to his with hardly any effort.

(Firm, dry, tasting like coffee--)

 _Enough,_ **_dammit_** _!_

“Let me go, John,” I demand, struggling against his grip. He tightens it, pulling me closer and narrowing his eyes as he searches for the words he wants to say. The pink tip of his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and finally he inhales deeply through his nose and shakes his head.

“ **We are on a case**. There are children missing. Now is not the time to be looking for someone to _get off with_. You are _Sherlock bloody Holmes_ , the **only** consulting detective in the world, and you will _act like it!_ ”

With another sharp breath, he flings my arm out of his hand and stomps up the path toward the survival skills area to the east.

 _Fine._ **_Leave_** _._

* * *

John and I ate lunch together.

In _silence_.

I was surprised, actually, that he showed up at all. I assumed, in his rage, that he might just eat lunch out in the woods with the mosquitos and squirrels. But he is a creature of habit, _after all_ , too rigid to abandon routine in favor of anger.

He even walked me back to the lake so I could begin the afternoon lessons, and then stared at me for an extra moment before turning to walk towards the woods.

We ate dinner together, in silence.

We walked through the woods after supper to the lake to watch the sunset.

_In silence._

When the last tendrils of orange-pink swirled over the treetops, John planted his hands and pushed off the ground, then turned to offer me a hand up. I stared at him, unable to decipher what might be going through his head, then accepted his gesture and wrapped my fingers around the base of his thumb. Our hands slotted together perfectly, and I felt the twinge of regret deep in my belly.

Our stroll through the woods back to the cabins was, of course, _silent_. I spent the time listening to the cricket calls and watching the fireflies illuminating the path ahead of us, wondering what my companion was thinking about.

 _Certainly not me,_ I convinced myself.

As we entered the cabin, Nathaniel glanced up at us, caught John's eye and pushed past us to leave. He shrugged at me as he left, and John raised his eyebrows and went into the loo to get ready for bed.

He didn't even say good night.

Neither did I.

And now, I cannot sleep. To be fair, I rarely sleep anyway, but at this moment I would give my left foot to escape the torment my inner demons are putting me through.

_I could smoke._

(John will know.)

_Let him. I don't care._

(Smoking doesn't help.)

 **_Nothing_ ** _will. It doesn't matter. At least smoking is_ **_something to do._ **

With a sigh, I roll away from the wall and glance at the clock across the room.

_Three in the bloody morning. Three more hours of this nonsense before I can get up._

_If only that imbecile wasn't sleeping in here,_ I consider with an annoyed glare at Nathaniel's bunk, who likely returned to the cabin after the lights had been off. _I would just get up. I would pace, and I wouldn’t even care if it woke up John. Maybe that would be better._

(Maybe it would be worth it. We could talk.)

 _Wouldn’t._ **_Don’t_** _._

Agitated and restless, I decide to review the facts of the case again in my Mind Palace. Better way to pass the time than feeling like a _lovesick fool._

 _I don’t_ **_love him_** _. Stop being_ **_ridiculous_** _._

Suddenly, an image flashes in my brain.

 

> _Campfire. John, leaning on my shoulder. Counselors, clinking beer bottles and laughing. Me, telling of my pursuit of Moriarty as if it were a scary story. “John, do you know how much I adore you? My sexy, angry John, I--”_

Oh. Oh, **God** , **_no_**. _No_ , that--

It **didn’t** happen. _There’s no way._ I don’t remember--

(Of course I remember.)

How could I be so weak? This is absurd. I cannot seem to function appropriately around him. Perhaps...well, after my stunt at the lake this morning, I’m sure he’s all but given up on me. I must have been imagining those not-moments from before, thinking there was _something_ when in reality I was projecting everything I wanted onto him. It’s not fair for me to put that on him. He _doesn’t--_

 _We_ **_aren’t--_ **

Below me, there’s a rustling on John’s bed that indicates he’s waking up. Loo, probably. I hear the rasp of the sheets as he slides his legs out, and hold my breath. No need to alert him that I’m already awake. We don’t need another awkward silence between us.

He fumbles around on the floor, then pulls his jeans on over his pants.

He’s going out…?

In the middle of the night?

_Brenda._

The padding of his feet are nearly silent as he makes his way across the dusty cabin floor, pausing only to pull on his trainers before easing quietly out the door.

_Clearly he’s made arrangements for a mid-night rendezvous. Unsurprising. It’s been a while since he’s had intercourse with anyone but himself, and he has been flirting with Brenda since we arrived._

(I might vomit.)

_Irrelevant. John may sleep with whomever he pleases._

**(No, no, no!)**

I’m out of bed before I realize it, yanking on my trousers and slinking silently across the cabin to my shoes. As I yank them on, John appears suddenly in the doorway, his eyes wide. I nearly shout with shock, but he shoves his hand over my mouth to silence me.

“Shh. Follow me,” he says as he removes his hand. “Keep quiet.”

As we move slowly through the woods around the cabins, it suddenly becomes clear what we’re doing. There’s a flashlight bobbing around as someone walks swiftly through the trees, avoiding the trails that connect one area to the next in the campgrounds. Occasionally the light stops and points at a piece of paper held by the person, then resumes bobbing as they make their way over rocks and around trees. Calling up my internal map of the campgrounds, it becomes clear where the unidentified person is heading--directly for the camper cabins.

“John,” I whisper breathlessly while grabbing his wrist. He pauses to look back at me, his face steely as his well-trained military habits are running full-bore. “Campers,” I add, pointing ahead of us. The dim glow of cabin lights are visible through the trees, and he nods once in agreement before continuing our surveillance at a safe distance,

The flashlight ahead of us extinguishes suddenly, and John drops to a crouch. I follow suit, knowing it’s best to do as he does in situations like this, and he reaches to the small of his back instinctively. Before making it, though, he huffs out a sigh and drops his hand back to front, remembering that he chose not to bring his firearm this time. In fact, I knew he would choose to leave it because we were entering a campground with hormonally volatile teenagers, and I considered grabbing it for him anyway. I had suspicions from the start that someone was abducting these children, and I assumed we might be faced with a moment like now in which a gun would be particularly handy.

I trusted his judgment, when I should have trusted my own. John has always made me doubt myself.

(He is also the only person who truly believes in me.)

_Does he?_

John’s hand grabs my arm and he pulls me to my feet, then takes off in a sprint. “Come on!” he shouts, running straight at our quarry. I take off after him, my heart pounding with the onslaught of adrenaline as I swerve around trees and rocks in pursuit. Ahead of us, there’s a muttered curse and then the person we’re chasing takes off, bounding through the woods towards the edge of the campgrounds.

“We’re losing him!” John announces, grabbing a small tree and whipping himself around it to pick up speed.

Our feet pound the earth, stirring up the sweet scent of rotting leaves and soil, as we continue to chase after whoever has been kidnapping the teens at the summer camp. As we run, I scan the area around us to ensure we aren’t heading into a trap, and fail to notice a fallen tree at my feet until I’ve toppled over it, my ankle twisting harshly in the crook of a tree branch.

“Dammit!” I hiss as I roll onto my back in an effort to free myself. Yanking at my leg, I finally free my foot from the branch and pull my knees under me to stand. But the moment I put weight on my injured ankle my leg gives out, a sharp, sickening pain shooting up my shin. Crumpling to the ground, I plop down onto my arse and reach down to feel my ankle and assess for fractures. Pain continues coursing up my leg, making me nauseous as I fight back involuntary tears.

_Pathetic!_

“Sherlock?” John calls from nearby, panting. “I lost him. Where are you?”

Swallowing around the lump in my throat, I croak, “Here.”

“You ok? You sound _wrong_ ,” he replies, twigs cracking beneath his feet as he walks quickly towards me. “Say something, I can’t see you.”

Taking a deep breath, I repeat, “ _Here_ , John.” My voice sounds awful, my leg feels like it’s on fire, and I can’t seem to stop the overwhelming and _hateful_ flutter behind my ribs that’s threatening to destroy me. “On the...on the ground. My leg--”

“What happened? **Sherlock**?” John calls again, panicked, as he gets closer to me. He drops down next to me, his hand on my shoulder as he peers into my face. The light from the moon illuminates his features, which are full of worry. “Where did you--”

“My ankle,” I interrupt, forcing myself to look away from him. _Can’t. Not right now._

He squeezes my arm once before shifting down my body, shoving up the legs of my trousers and gently touching both of my ankles to compare them. His fingertips are soft and purposeful, pressing while he diagnoses. “One to ten?” he asks, sitting back on his haunches.

“Four,” I lie with a wince.

“ **Stop it**. _One to ten_?” he asks again, only this time it carries a threat with noncompliance.

Rolling my eyes, I lean back on my hands and huff, “Eight. And a half, when you touch it.”

“We need to get back to the cabin so we can ice it. Did you hear anything when you injured it?” John stands and waits while I shake my head and roll onto my hands and knees, his face clouded in the pitch black void of the forest as he towers over me. As I push off the ground, he squats and aligns his body with mine, supporting my arm and most of my body weight with his shoulders.

Together, we stand up. “All right?” John asks quietly in my ear.

(My heart is going to become arhythmic if he does that again.)

I gurgle something that sounds at least somewhat affirmative and we begin the slow trek back to the cabins. John’s hand is wrapped firmly around my torso, his fingers pressed into the skin stretched across my ribs.

“You need to eat more,” he murmurs as he helps me over a particularly rocky and uneven patch, supporting nearly all of my weight. (He could carry me if I let him.)

_Stop it._

“Eating is _boring_ ,” I mutter, and he squeezes my side in laughter. The sound is a panacea, and for a moment nothing else matters except his body pressed against mine and his chuckles echoing in my ear. “John,” I begin softly, pausing to look down at him.

“Hm?” he says, looking up through his eyelashes. “Sherlock? Something wrong?”

( ** _Tell him._** )

“I...I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m an _idiot_.”

John looks in front of us for a moment, his lips puckered while he considers my apology. Finally, he lets out an exasperated sigh and hugs me tighter to his side. “I know.”

We limp along together for a while longer, the cicadas screaming in the trees above us. My body no longer buzzes with the adrenaline of the chase, the lactic acid settling in my muscles and making them ache. The pain in my ankle throbs with each step, and I focus on aligning my breaths with his in order to ignore it. It barely helps, and I bite my bottom lip to keep myself from crying out.

“Almost there,” John reassures. “Let’s hope you didn’t break it.”

“I didn’t.”

“Hm. We’ll see,” he mumbles. We finally make it out of the wretched woods and get to our cabin. John helps me inside and over to the bunk beds, gesturing with his eyebrows and a nod for me to sit.

On _his_ bed. Immediately, the memory of being encircled in his strong arms, his breath warm and washing over my neck as he snored gently in my ear flashes behind my eyes and I have the overwhelming urge to flee.

_Stop making everything about sex. This is about practicality. John needs to assess my ankle. The bed is the best place to do that, and climbing to the top bunk would be ridiculous._

Without waiting for me to agree, he turns us around and sits both of us down on the bed, his arm still wrapped around me and our bodies pressed together from shoulder to knee. He sits a moment longer, not releasing me, then pats my side and withdraws to stand. The immediate absence of his warmth against me is disappointing, and I clench my hands on my knees to prevent myself from reaching out to him. He drops to a squat at my feet and begins undoing my shoelaces, and my stomach does flip flops while I watch him.

“I can do that,” I offer, my voice cracking with pain and exhaustion. He shakes his head and continues, gingerly pulling off my shoes and socks with cool, nimble fingers, taking care not to further injure me. The tenderness in his touch stills my pounding heart, the pain in my leg momentarily forgotten.

“Lay down,” he commands quietly, not wanting to wake Nathaniel. He loops his arms under both of my legs to help me swing them up onto the bed, resting my feet on a pillow to keep them elevated. “I need to look at your ankle, and then we are going to ice it and you’re going to take some pain relievers and get some rest.” He turns on the lamp next to the bed, the warm yellow glow seeming too bright after the last hour of pitch black forest we’ve been running around in.

I wait, counting my breaths, while he rummages around in the kitchenette for the first aid kit, an ice pack, and some paracetamol. He returns with everything and a bottle of water, cracking the plastic cap loose before handing it over to me.

“Thanks,” I murmur, throwing the pills in my mouth with a swig of cool water. After swallowing, I let my head drop down onto the pillow, feeling the exhaustion and tension of the day slowly seep out of my neck and shoulders as I relax.

“Thankfully, not broken,” John says after poking and prodding at me.

“ _Obvious_ ,” I mumble at him, my tongue feeling thick and slow.

“A bad sprain, though.” His words sound far away, disconnected from reality as my body sinks into his bed. “Nothing some ice and an ankle brace can't fix.” The cold from the ice pack jolts me back into wakefulness briefly, making me jump. John holds my leg in place and glances up at me, the professional expression of a doctor fading into something much softer. “Rest, ok? I've got you.”

I hold his gaze until my neck starts to ache, then drop my head back down again and stare at the bunk above me. The warm weight of John's hand on my shin surprises me, but I don't jump this time. He runs his hand slowly, gently, up and down my shin in a soothing gesture, occasionally squeezing my leg affectionately.

This (loving, sweet, perfect) _confusing_ rhythm is what eventually dulls the throb in my leg and the roar of my thoughts, until reality ceases and my body gives in to sleep.


	6. Temporary Relief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ye be warned: ahead lies some smut!
> 
> Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's finally a break in the case! Between John and Sherlock that is. Oh, and with the missing teens, too. Can't forget them. ;)

“Sherlock?”

Warmth. Heart beats. Breaths.

“Hey, sleepy head. Time to get up.”

Cotton blanket. Creaky mattress. Down pillow.

Roll onto my stomach.

Pain. _Painpainpainpainpain!_

“Go slow, hm? The rest of you probably aches a bit too from your fall last night.”

**_John._ **

“Mmrphh mmmmph,” I mumble into the pillow. The pillow that smells like John’s pharmacy brand shampoo.

A breathless chuckle, then a heavy hand on my shoulder. It lingers, then trails slowly up to the back of my head, fingers diving into my hair to scratch lightly at my scalp. I’m too sleepy to hide (or care about) the involuntary sound the back of my throat makes.

“Thought you’d enjoy this,” John murmurs above me, his fingers pressing harder while they massage my head. I purr a moment longer, ignoring the distant alarms in my head until the rest of reality comes into focus and the last of my sleepiness ebbs away.

_What is he…? He’s? I? What?!_

(Don’t stop.)

_Stop!_

( **Don’t**.)

“Come on. I need to take another look at your ankle now that you’ve slept so I can determine how much you’re allowed to do today,” John says, his hand stilling in my hair, fingers still spread wide across the back of my head.

Turning my face to the side, I protest, “I’m allowed to do what I want. _I’m an adult_.”

Another few scratches, then his hand withdraws and he pats me on the shoulder. “You may be an adult, but _I am your doctor_. Now, roll over.”

I--

Um…

With a swallow and a sigh, I gingerly roll onto my back.

And immediately pray that John doesn’t notice the prominent erection between my thighs.

_For God’s sake! Of course he’ll notice!_

(He should find it flattering.)

 _It’s embarrassing! I cannot_ **_believe_ ** _my transport would betray me this way!_

“John,” I croak out as he reaches to pull the blankets off me.

He pauses, his hand hovering in the air above my chest, and frowns. “Hm?”

“I, uh--” _think think think think think_ “need the loo,” I mutter, one hand clutching the blanket to my chin and the other snaking down to adjust myself.

John glances down, his attention caught by the movement, and his eyes linger for a moment before flicking back up to mine. The pink tip of his tongue sneaks out of his mouth, drawing his bottom lip in to be trapped between his teeth as he stares at me.

_Bloody hell._

It feels like the air in the room has been sucked out as we maintain eye contact for the space of several breaths. His pupils are huge, dilated so much that his eyes look nearly black despite the early morning glow coming in from the window.

Finally, he clears his throat. “I, uh-- I don’t think--” Another throat clear.

(He’s affected by this.)

_Embarrassed._

( **Nope**.)

“I don’t...I should probably…,” he continues, hand waving in the general direction of my feet. “Before you, um…” He coughs. “ _Get up_ ,” he adds with a nod and a deep breath, trying to pull himself together and sound at least a little less... _flustered_.

 _I’m embarrassing him._ _Perhaps I should apologize._

“John, I’m sure that as a physician, and a man, you are aware that at times there is very little control one has over one’s physiology, and--”

“Don’t... _do_ that,” he interrupts, his voice lower than usual. “Don’t...just, it’s _fine_ , Sherlock. Good, in fact.” He swipes a hand over his face, then rubs at the back of his neck. “It’s...good.”

_Good?! What?_

The warm tingle of adrenaline courses through my veins, making my heart pound and the back of my neck prickle. Heat washes over me, settling in my cheeks and ears. I can feel my pulse between my legs, throbbing unashamedly as my eyelids become heavy with arousal and my vision blurs. _Dammit, John!_

“Let me just…” ( ** _Anything_**.) “...check your ankle.” ( **Oh**.) “If you want, I can just pull the blankets up from the bottom, or…?” he suggests around a hard swallow.

“Do what you will,” ( _please!)_ I reply with a sigh, releasing the blankets and bringing my hands up to steeple my fingers in front of my lips. He pauses, clearly debating with himself, and then grabs the blanket from under my chin and pulls it slowly down and off my entire body. Knowing his eyes are on me does nothing to quell my erection, so I settle on counting my breaths and staring at his hands while they assess my ankle. He carefully pushes my trouser leg up my calf, his fingers shooting electricity up my skin as they brush along.

John presses gingerly, turning my foot one way, then another, while asking, “One to ten?”

Any ability I have to be objective at this point is essentially _gone_ , so I guess, “5?”

He glances my way, a smirk on the corners of his lips. “Not sure?”

“Bit distracted. Does it matter?” I ask, crossing my arms on my chest and looking at the wall. _I need to calm down._

(Perhaps John could assist...?)

_Nonsense._

He makes a humming noise (number 42 in the catalog, the one indicating slight annoyance but lack of desire to argue further) and stands up. “There’s a wrap and ankle brace in the first aid kit that I’m going to--”

“For God’s sake, John!”

“No, you **will** wear it, Sherlock,” he commands, pointing his finger at me. “And if I think you need it, Alice has crutches in her cabin,” John adds while walking to the kitchenette. “I need you functioning at at least 80%--we have to talk to Alice and the rest of the counselors about last night. I need to do perimeter checks, do a safety briefing with the campers, and we need to call--”

“ _Absolutely not,_ ” I snap, interrupting him. “ _We_ are here to investigate. You know if we call him he’ll be obligated to come here, and then everything we’ve been working on will be muddled with bureaucratic _nonsense_ and _red tape_ ,” I complain while throwing my hands up in the air.

John stops and faces me, his hands on his hips. “Sherlock, do you know something I don’t? Do you know who’s abducting these kids?” he asks conspiratorially, as if others might be able to hear us from outside the cabin.

A pause. “Not exactly. Seven possibilities,” I answer, propping myself up on my elbows and watching him.

“ _Seven_?” he asks, incredulously staring at me. His eyebrows raise while he waits for my response.

Letting my head drop back on my shoulders, I concede, “I _might_ be exaggerating.”

Without looking at him, I can feel his irritation across the cabin and fight back a smirk. He rummages around in the cabinets, then starts walking back towards me with the soft thumping of his socked feet on the wooden floor. Once he reaches the bedside, he drops his supplies down next to my leg and gets to work, carefully and firmly wrapping my ankle in the Ace bandage before enclosing it in a stiff ankle brace. “You’re so annoying sometimes,” he mutters under his breath as he wraps the final velcro around and secures it. My ankle feels immediately relieved with the added support and containment of the swelling, though I refuse to tell John that.

“ _John_ ,” I whine, getting back up onto my elbows again to stare at him through narrowed eyes. “I can’t be seen hobbling around like an _old_ _man_.”

He fixes me with a glare, then pats my knee and turns to grab my water bottle on the side table. As he turns back to look at me again, his eyes wander down my torso, stopping at my groin. The tips of his ears turn pink, and I fight the urge to clasp my hands over my still-prominent erection.

“Wear it, **_or else_** , Sherlock. You don't have to like it. You _could_ choose to rest, you know,” he adds, making the face that says _as if you ever could_ while I scoff and roll my eyes. “Regardless, we need to get moving, so why don’t you go in the loo and take care of _that_.”

 _Oh God John_ **_really_** _?!_

Blinking at him, I ask, “Take care of what?” sounding as confused as I can.

John takes a deep lungful of air and looks up at the ceiling, exasperated. “ _Bloody hell_ , _Sherlock_.” He reaches down and adjusts himself through his trousers. “Just...do whatever you need to be able to focus. I'll leave the cabin if it makes you more comfortable.”

 **_No!_ ** _Don't leave!_

“I can focus just fine,” I argue, pushing myself up to sit and dangle my legs over the side of the bed. As my blood pressure changes, the dull throb in my ankle worsens.

John takes another deep breath with his eyes closed. “Fine, Sherlock. It’s all fine. Do you need help to the loo?”

Sliding to the edge of the bed, I put some of my weight on my injured ankle to test it. While certainly not comfortable, the pain isn’t as overwhelming as I expect. As I stand, John waits in front of me with his hands outstretched, ready to catch me if I stumble. I don’t, thankfully, and turn to limp off to the bathroom. John sighs to himself, then walks out of the cabin as promised.

_Absurd. I’m not going to--_

(I could. Easily.)

_He’ll know._

(He knows anyway. It doesn’t matter. Might as well clear my head.)

The throbbing between my legs is intense, overpowering my thoughts and focusing all of my attention down. Before I realize it, my fingers are pulling at the button for my trousers, and I pretend to myself that it’s only so I can urinate.

_It isn’t._

I stare at myself in the mirror, willing my urges to subside. They don’t, and soon I’m palming myself through my boxer briefs. The first touch is electrifying, sending sparks down my thighs and pooling heat low in my groin. My thoughts wander as I squeeze, then dip my hand below the waistband of my pants to increase stimulation.

John is standing outside, thinking about me in here, touching myself.

_Because of him._

I let out a gasp as I visualize him leaning against the outer wall of the cabin, less than a metre away from me, craning his neck to hear any sounds I might make. Just as aroused as I am, and denying himself any relief. The muscles in his belly tense and quivering. His face flushed, lips parted as he echoes my gasp.

(Wish he was in _here_ , pressing me against the wall with our trousers at our knees.)

I imagine him getting fed up and storming inside, throwing open the door and pouncing on me. I pretend it’s his strong, capable hands stroking me gently, knowing where and how to touch me. He’s got one hand sliding up the silky smooth skin of my shaft and the other reaching down to cup and pull on my testicles, heightening my arousal. I can hear his voice, stored deep in my Mind Palace, talking me through it.

 _You love it,_ **_don’t you_** _? You’re gagging for it, for_ **_me_** _. You’re so hard, Sherlock._ **_So fucking hard_** _, and I love how you feel in my hands. I can tell you’re getting closer. Do you want it? You want to come for me?_

“God, yes, **_John_** , uungh--”

 _Do it, Sherlock._ **_Come for me_** _._

The orgasm rolls through me like a tidal wave, starting deep in my core before sending shockwaves down my legs and up my torso. I’m vaguely aware of the incoherent shout I make, and the knowledge that John _certainly_ heard it causes another surge of pleasure to ripple through me. The tingling spreads throughout my entire body as I crest the peak, my toes curling on the floor and body doubling over the sink as ejaculate coats my hand. Gripping the side of the vanity, I steady myself while catching my breath, the flood of dopamine settling in my muscles like a low hum.

As my brain comes back online and I survey the mess in front of me, the details of the case start flying through my head.

We need to talk to Alice. _Immediately_. Every time a teen has gone missing, it’s been after a few days in the camp. Whoever is perpetrating these abductions knows when the camp starts and stops, and waits until everyone is settled in their routines. They probably abduct in the night, as evidenced by our interruption last night, but no one else in the cabins seems to notice that it happens until the morning.

Or, more likely, they _lied_ about it.

How could a bunch of teens, who are naturally nocturnal due to the shift in their hormones and sleep cycles, not hear or notice someone in their cabin being abducted until the early morning?

 **_Balance of probability_ ** \--they _know_ it’s happening and **lie** about it.

“John!!” The slam of the cabin door is seconds later, as are the heavy clod of his military boots on the hardwood floor as he walks towards the bathroom.

I need to get cleaned up.

“Sherlock?” he calls, his voice sounding odd. “Are you--do you need me?”

I finish wiping myself up, wash my hands, and yank up my trousers and pants. Throwing open the door, I grin in his face breathlessly, the adrenaline pumping through my veins.

“I _always_ need you, _John_ ,” I purr, aware that my face is flushed and there’s a slick sheen of sweat on my forehead still from my earlier _activity_. He licks his lips, and the vein in his throat pulses, thready and quick. _Not now, John. The game is on!_

“We have to go talk to Alice **now**.”

* * *

Alice paces in front of us, her hands thrust deep in the pockets of her dirty and torn denim jeans while she considers John’s narrative. “You’re _sure_?” she asks, her face stricken with worry. “You’re sure it wasn’t just...a camper? Out on a stroll?”

“Possible, but improbable,” I respond. Everyone quiets and stares at me as I explain. “The path and pattern of travel, length of stride, and behavioral patterns suggest that it was an adult. I suppose it could be one of the teens, but the location in which we found this person and their behavior after we chased after them indicates that it was someone who **wasn’t** supposed to be in the camp.”

Lily blinks at me owlishly, then shakes her head and suggests, “Could have been someone who was lost?”

“At 3am?” John asks, skeptical. “Lost people don’t extinguish their torches and run away when confronted with someone who could help them.”

I smile approvingly in his direction, pleased at his deductive reasoning. “John’s right, _of course,_ ” I murmur, allowing my eyes to linger on him an extra moment. He notices, catching my eye, then tucks his head while the ghost of a smile hovers at the corners of his lips.

Under his breath, Nate mutters, “Of _course_ he is.”

Alice stops pacing and stares at him, her eyes hard. “Something you want to add, Nathaniel?” she snaps.

He shakes his head, a petulant scowl on his face, and returns his focus on his coffee.

John meets my gaze, a curious look in his eyes. He throws a quick glance at Nate, then back to me--code, clearly. He’s suspicious. _Jealous?_ Interesting.

“Regardless, I think I should do a full perimeter check just to be aware of any security concerns and to gather evidence of our mysterious visitor in the night,” John then suggests, shrugging and leaning back in his chair. “Billy, you should accompany me, since you can’t do any sailing today, yeah?” he adds, his hands rubbing the tops of his thighs. (Arousal. Thinking about earlier. Wants to be alone again.) Nonsense. _Needs my help on the case. Excellent excuse to be together today._

Alice nods absently, seemingly rattled by it all. “Should we talk to the campers?”

John and I share a look, and I blink out a simple _“no”_ to him in morse code.

He blinks back-- _”why.”_

 _“Later”_ is my reply. Can’t alert the campers who might be covering this up to the fact that _we_ _know_ that someone is coming for them.

John fakes consideration of Alice’s question, then shakes his head. “Not yet. Not now. It might scare them too much. Let’s just do what we can to make sure they can be safe. Head counts, bunk checks. Let’s buckle down on this as a team. Maybe whoever it was will have been scared off by the fact that they were chased,” he says hopefully.

The rest of the counselors nod soberly, then turn back to their coffees and breakfast. Idle chatter resumes after a long silence, but everyone speaks in hushed tones about nothing in particular. I quickly eat the rest of my toast and coffee (masturbation always gives me an appetite) and slap my hands on the top of the table. Everyone jumps, then glares at me.

“There’s _finally_ something exciting happening!” I exclaim, pushing back from the table.

John looks at me, his eyes wide in alarm. “Bit not good,” he mutters, then throws an apologetic smile at everyone else. No one comments, but they all stare at me a moment longer before returning to their breakfasts. I stand up, still a bit wobbly on my injured ankle, and throw an exaggerated grin at everyone (including John) before turning to walk off. John yanks at my shirt sleeve, irritated, and we leave the mess hall to head back to our cabin before setting out for the day to gather clues and check the perimeter.

Once out of earshot, John hisses, “Would you _behave_?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” I ask while rolling my eyes. Above us, the birds chirp happily in the trees as the sun continues to climb, hot and bright, in the cloudless blue sky. There’s the rustle of leaves and underbrush nearby as an animal scurries away from us, and John glances in its direction.

“ **Sherlock** ,” he warns, frustrated with me.

People always assume I am unaware of social cues and nuances. They’re wrong (as usual). I observe and understand emotions better than most. The difference is that I don’t care, as the emotional state of others rarely affects me. However, when it’s John...I find myself sensitive to his moods.

“You’re suspicious of Nathaniel,” I comment, hoping that changing the subject to the case will distract him.

“He never came back to the cabin last night,” John replies gruffly, still looking into the woods around us as we walk. _Avoiding looking at_ **_me_** _._

“You were careful not to wake him,” I argue, confused. John spoke softly after we returned. I have the moment stored precisely in my Mind Palace, like every moment with him.

“And your observational skills were impaired by pain. I may have been quiet, but not because he was there. Bit of a deductive leap, even for you,” he contradicts with a smirk. “He wasn’t there, not even this morning.”

(We could have--)

_Stop it._

“He’s not intelligent enough,” I respond while limping along beside him. “He doesn’t have enough charisma to convince these teens to lie for him, either.”

John hums to himself, and I notice his jaw working in the corner of my eye. _Clearly remembering my idiocy from yesterday._ “Not enough charisma?” he finally says, his voice stiff.

“No,” I reply immediately, determined to convince him. “Not even close.”

We walk along in silence for a while longer, approaching our cabin. He pauses next to me and says, “What did you mean? About the teens lying? Walk me through it.”

Glad he’s let go of his concerns about Nathaniel, I  take a deep breath and begin. “So we know that last night we chased an adult through the woods who was heading towards the camper’s cabins. After thoroughly investigating alternative means of disappearance, including natural causes and internal malfeasance, we’ve narrowed it down to an outside influence,” I explain, my words tumbling faster and faster out of my mouth as the connections in the web of details become clearer. “The likelihood that an outside person could or would abduct a child during daylight hours while said child was surrounded by other children and supervisory adults is incredibly low. Additionally, it’s happened too many times for them to have not been noticed by someone else; hence there _have_ been witnesses,” I finish, manic energy coursing through me. It’s hard to stand still, I feel so restless with this sudden break in the case.

John faces me, frowning, and counters, “Everyone has denied seeing anything.”

“Just because they deny it doesn’t mean they’re telling the truth.”

He nods and places his hands on his hips as he considers. “Ah. So you think there have been witnesses who are lying about what they’ve seen or know.”

“ **Precisely**.” My blood is on fire, surging through my veins as we discuss it. I love how he keeps pace with me, evidence of our _perfect_ companionship. I grin at him, and he returns the smile, which only serves to triple my excitement.

“So that’s why you don’t want me to brief the campers. Don’t want them to know that _we_ know about what happened last night,” he concludes quietly, his eyes gleaming.

“Exactly, John. I need more data. I need the rosters. _All_ the rosters. For every year since this started. I need to figure out which teens know. _This is the link, John_. This is what we’ve been missing!”

“ _Look at you_ \--this is the Sherlock Holmes I know. You’ve been off since we got here. Glad to see that’s changed,” he comments, reaching out to squeeze my shoulder affectionately.

We share a long look, his hand lingering for an extra moment before he pats me a few times and pulls away with a resigned smile.

(Don't.)

 _I_ **_know_ ** _why he does._

He's a distraction to me and he doesn't want to be. Not while there's a clear threat to the kids at camp with us right now. I need to be on my game. He knows it. We can't figure out whatever this is between us until after the case is solved.

_Hateful._

**Necessary**. _He's right_ , I've been off since we got here. In a fog of hormones created by his presence. Masturbation provided me temporary relief and I intend on using this newfound clarity to my advantage.

Once the case is solved I will tell him how I feel.

_Right._

I will. **Probably**. He feels the same, _I think._

_Not enough data._

**Dammit**.


	7. No Excuses Needed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock check the perimeter for clues and have a very important conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa, so much happening in this chapter! Sorry it took a bit of time for me to get this one written. Life has been pretty busy for me and I've been working on the monthly writing prompt that I do with my friends. Plus, these two threw me for a loop in this chapter!! I had a totally different outline planned and they hijacked it all and took it somewhere else. Hope you enjoy! This is a very exciting chapter!!

John gathers some supplies from the cabin, checks my ankle, and we depart for our day together. As we head towards the perimeter, I'm deep in my Mind Palace, reviewing the agenda for the day. I barely register passing a group of teens making their way to the mess hall. _Irrelevant._

_Need data. Should start near the staff cabins, since that's where our pursuit began. Check the path of travel to determine height, weight, gender of individual we chased. Potential for additional bits of evidence. Need to determine entry and exit points to the campgrounds, which might elucidate potential bolt holes. Finally, an exciting day!_

(With John.)

_Of course, with John. He is my partner after all._

( **Alone**.)

_Investigating. Hardly the time or place for much else._

(Still.)

_Still, nothing. Focus, dammit!_

“Hey! Mr. Billy and Mr. John!” one of the teens yells, startling me out of my internal debate. The whole group turns and waves. “Why don't we have animal tracking class today?”

There's a chorus of disappointed hums of agreement, along with a few muttered comments of _yeah, was looking forward to it._

“Sorry, lads, schedule change. Tomorrow, probably. Cheers,” John replies with a genuine smile, tipping his head as he tries to move along.

“What, you guys got a date or somethin’?” a young man named Charlie asks with a sly smirk. _For_ **_God's_ ** _sake! All they think about is_ **_sex_** _._ The others snort and chuckle, jabbing each other in the ribs with their elbows.

John stops in his tracks and places his hands on his hips, throwing them a fake glare. “Now, now, boys--”

“Nah, Charlie, it’s not lunchtime or sunset yet. _That’s_ when they have their dates,” Fred argues around huffs of laughter. The others don’t bother hiding their conspiratorial laughs, clapping their companion on his shoulder for the joke.

John narrows his eyes, fighting with himself about whether to address the comments or just walk away, and something inside me shifts.

_We're not a couple._

(Don't say it, John. _Please_.)

Before I realize it, my mouth is moving. “Quite astute of you, Fred. Lucky for me, I have Mr. John all to myself for the day. Sorry to take him from you, but I just couldn’t resist.”

_What the bloody hell is wrong with--_

Beside me, John turns slowly, his face lit up with a grin. “Likewise,” he says under his breath. _Likewise?!_ “Beat it, lads! Leave us to our date!” John adds, shooing them away with his hands. The boys throw each other glances and wave their goodbyes, continuing on towards the dining hall for breakfast while snickering to each other.

(He agreed.)

_It's for the case, clearly._

“Good cover, John,” I compliment as we continue along the path towards the entrance of the campgrounds.

He looks up at me as we walk together, close enough that our hands occasionally brush ( _electricity!)_ , and frowns. “What?”

“That was a good excuse for why we both had to cancel our classes and spend the day together,” I reply with a smile. _It’s not an excuse. I want to be with you. Tell me you want to be with me._

“Don’t be an idiot,” John replies, kicking at a pebble on the path. “I don’t need an excuse to spend the day with you.”

“It's for the case,” I counter slowly. “Perhaps we should consider splitting up. We would cover more ground alone, increasing the likelihood of acquiring much needed data.” _Shut up you idiot!_

“No,” John says as he turns off the path towards the woods. “Come on. You're not pushing me away that easily.”  

 _Pushing you away?_ “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I answer, holding a branch up so he can walk under it.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” he says, turning to face me after I let the branch down behind me. He stares at me, his jaw working and breath whistling through his nostrils as he prepares to say something to me. “What is this?”

“Hmm?” _Did he see something?_ I look around us, searching for whatever he’s referring to, and find nothing out of the ordinary. As I turn to glance behind me, he grabs my forearm, making me pause and face him.

John shakes his head,  his eyes growing soft as he clarifies, “This. _Thing_. Between us.”

 _Not now. Christ,_ **_not now_** _, John. I have to focus, I need to be able to--_

“I--John, I can’t--” I babble awkwardly, cursing myself at how inarticulate I sound.

His hand snakes down my arm until his fingers reach my hand, curling around my palm. He grips tightly enough that his fingernails bite into the skin on the inside of my hand. “ _Why_?”

 _I’m not strong enough._ “The...case, I--”

“No. Forget about that for a minute, Sherlock, and just answer me honestly. _What_ _is_ _this_?” John asks, his hand still gripping mine, holding us close together.

_I don’t know._

( **I** **_do_ ** **know**.)

“It’s...you’re...,” I begin, unsure how to answer him. He peers up at me, eyes searching my own for whatever I'm thinking. Every part of me wants to shrink away, to turn and flee.

He squeezes my hand and smiles in the corners of his mouth, then asks, “Are you attracted to me?”

“Don't be obtuse, John.”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” he warns.

_Here goes nothing._

“I, uh...yes,” I respond with a huff. His eyes widen.

_Shit, fix it fix it fix it!_

“I know, though, that you aren’t...you don’t consider yourself gay, and I--”

_I'm such an idiot!_

Frowning at me, he interrupts, “You told me that you’re in love with me.” _Bloody hell, he remembers._ “At the bonfire,” he adds, looking off to his right as he recalls it. “You were drunk, but it seemed like it might--was that the truth?”

“John, I prefer not to lie,” I deflect, looking over the top of his head to avoid eye contact.

“That’s...Sherlock, don’t be ridiculous. You lie all the time. Was _that_ a lie?” he demands, his voice stern.

 _Too late to turn back. He can accept it or not. He can leave if he likes. I'm tired of hiding from how I feel._ “No. I may lie for many reasons, but I would never lie about something as important as this, John. Now, if we could please, just...save me your pity and your pandering, your _sorry but not interested_ and let’s focus on the case, shall we? I’ve had enough blows to my ego in the last 24 hours to last me a lifetime.”

John laughs. He laughs right in my face. I feel like dissolving inside my own ribs. “When did I say I _wasn’t_ interested?” he asks, an amused expression on his face.

With a scoff, I reply, “Every time you say we _aren’t a couple_.”

“Sherlock, we _aren’t_ a couple.”

“Exactly,” I agree, my eyes stinging. Pulling away from him, I gesture towards some plants nearby as a distraction, using the opportunity to wipe at my cheeks. _Pathetic. “_ The pattern of branch breaks on this bush indicates--”

He snatches at my arm, yanking me roughly around to face him again. “No, **stop it,** Sherlock. Just...would you just talk to me? Stop deflecting, stop doubting, and just look at me for a minute. We can get back to the case soon. Just _look_ at me. I tell people we aren’t a couple because we aren’t. I have never said I wasn’t interested. In fact, I thought I made myself quite clear in my interest, and until recently I just assumed you were asexual. Which is fine, if that’s the case. It’s all--”

_Let it go, would you!?_

“All fine, yes, I know, John. It’s always all just bloody _fine_ isn’t it?” I snap, pulling at the place he's grabbing my arm. His grip doesn't falter, so I settle for looking away from him and scowling.

He chuckles to himself, shaking his head. “You are _such an idiot_ sometimes. The master of rational thought and logic, and yet you refuse to follow your own rules when it comes to me?! _Never theorize before you have data, otherwise you’ll twist facts to suit theories instead of theories to suit facts._ Right? That’s how it goes? Then use your bloody brain, _Sherlock_ , and **THINK**. **_Deduce_**. _Show me how bloody smart you are, you posh genius_!”

The events of the past week replay in my mind. The fight at the flat about whether or not he matters. _He does._ The way he’s been possessive about me around others. Our daily ritual of watching the sunset together. His arm around me at the lake. The softness in his eyes when he looks at me. His never-ending pursuit of getting me to eat, or sleep, or take care of myself. His persistence in caring for me. The hurt on his face when I kissed Nathaniel. The hunger when he saw how hard I was this morning around him.

Just like that, as if it were the solution to a particularly challenging puzzle, the answer becomes clear and stares me right in the face.

 _He loves me_. More than that, he **_wants_ ** **me**.

 _He’s right. I_ **_am_ ** _an idiot._

“John,” I croak, my voice catching in my throat as I wrap my hands around the base of his skull and pull him to me. The first touch of our lips is hesitant and dry, the barest brush of skin. He makes a sound in the back of his throat that makes my knees feel like buckling, and before I realize it he’s popped up onto the balls of his feet and our mouths are pressed firmly against each other. His hands fist in my shirt as he uses me as an anchor, and I release his head to wrap my arms firmly around his shoulders, holding him steady. He groans again as we press together, his tongue probing at the entrance to my mouth.

Time pauses, and for the first time in my life my thoughts stop racing around my head. A calm settles in my brain--a blankness that at first makes me nervous but quickly brings me relief that I did not think was possible without heroin.

After several moments of peace, his mouth drops away from mine and he pants, breathless, on my neck.

 _I made John Watson_ **_breathless_** _._

“Christ, Sherlock, that was...can’t wait to do more of _that_ ,” he murmurs into the underside of my jaw as he kisses me tenderly. “Should have known you’d be amazing at that, too.”

I hide a proud, private smile, and hug him tighter to me. “You’re not having a heterosexual crisis,” I announce bluntly.

His body shakes against mine as he laughs to himself. “No, I’m not. Good deduction.”

“Why not?”

He leans away from me while staying within the circle of my arms and looks me directly in the eye. “Because I don’t need to. I’ve wanted this since the day we met. Who could resist those cheekbones?”

The tingle of vasodilation creeps along the back of my neck, making my cheeks flush and my ears feel hot at his compliment. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

John bites his bottom lip, considering, and then replies, “I didn’t want you to feel obligated to have something more than you wanted just to keep me around. I wasn’t sure how you felt. You happen to hide your emotions rather well.” He pecks me on the cheek, then smiles in my face. “ _You_ could have said something, you know.”

“Ah, but you know me, John Watson. The fun’s in the chase, in the _game_ ,” I joke, not wanting to let him in on my constant stream of internal flagellation.

“I don’t want to play the game anymore,” he replies before pushing up to kiss me again.

_Brilliant._

* * *

We searched the majority of the perimeter, then tracked the route taken by the would-be abductor from start to finish. Whoever it was had known where to go and how to get through the camp, with barely any signs of their movement through the woods until John and I began chasing them. Near their exit from the campgrounds, we came across the best piece of evidence to date for this entire case.

“Not much to go on,” John says, holding the scrap of paper we found.

Smirking at him, I hold out my hand for it. “Ah, John, I wouldn’t say that!”

He fights back an eye roll at my sarcasm, sighing heavily. “Seeing, not observing. Well?” he asks, his eyebrows high on his forehead. Above us, the sun is hot and bright, sending streams of light down through the canopy of the trees around us. The leaves dapple the beams, filtering out most of the heat and giving us a fairly comfortable mid-morning stroll.

Turning the paper over in my hands, I take a deep breath and begin. “Let’s _start_ with the quality of the paper. It’s thin, inexpensive, and wrinkled. There’s evidence of erasure, meaning it’s been reused four...no, _five_ times. Whoever this paper belongs to does not have regular access to buy more, so they reuse this piece every time they need to. Additionally, the edges are torn, indicating that it was probably ripped from a larger sheet. The style of paper is typical for shopping receipts, as evidenced by the sheen on one side of the paper, and if you look closely,” I pause, holding it up for him to see. “There’s some faded print on the back that looks like typeset numbers. Definitely a receipt from shopping, then, but the ink is so faded that it wasn’t from anything recent. That, or it’s been reused enough that the numbers were worn off. However, the pattern of fading is consistent across the the page, making it more likely that time has faded the receipt as opposed to wear and tear. So whoever was carrying it does not regularly go anywhere that could supply him or her with a new piece of paper or receipt. The person is isolated from society, which fits with our concerns about the surrounding areas that are reportedly uninhabited. Dropping this was certainly a tremendous mistake, as it might be the only piece they own and now we have it.”

He nods, considering, and asks, “What about the word? NotEvenTheRain 013? What’s that supposed to mean? Code of some kind?”

Shaking my head, I turn the paper back over to look at the message. “Not a code. Probably. We’ll discuss that in a minute. Let’s consider the handwriting first. Written in pencil, but a pencil that’s been used for a long time and now has very little left. The writing is sloppy, but not like the person lacks penmanship skills--more like they have very little control over the pencil itself due to it being short and stubby. They can’t hold it the way they usually would, resulting in awkward writing. The size and the fact that everything is printed with capital letters indicates that most likely the author is male.”

“Some women print in caps,” John counters.

“True, but balance of probability, John. Most women’s writing has more flourish than this and tends to be larger. Additionally, if we are talking about someone who might be abducting children, the odds that it’s a male are much higher given statistics from past crimes that are similar. Now, look here--the way the pencil varies dramatically in line thickness indicates that the point is uneven. Considering the fact that the person does not have regular access to paper, it’s likely they also don’t have access to a pencil sharpener and have to rely on other ways to gain a point for writing.”

“A knife.”

“Probably. With the uneven point, it causes the pencil to press into the paper more in some areas than others, adding to how decompensated this precious piece of paper is. It might have survived two more erasings before dissolving entirely from overuse. Without a microscope it’s difficult to tell what’s been written before this particular message, but I would hazard a guess that it’s related to whatever this means.” I tap the paper with my index finger, then glance at John, who’s staring at me with a gaping mouth. _I love impressing him like this!_ “Now, onto the message itself--”

“ _Shut up_ ,” John says as he reaches up to pull me down into a hungry kiss. It’s sloppy, full of tongue and teeth and fingers threaded in hair, and ends with him biting down on my bottom lip before pulling away. “Been wanting to do that for ages,” he pants, still holding me close. “ _Love it_ when you do deductions. Now, you were saying?”

_I may never get used to this._

“Uh, I, well, the message. It's not a message. It’s a username,” I manage to get out despite the swirl of arousal making its way down to my groin.

John leans in close, taking another look at the paper. My heart rate spikes again, warm tingles crawling up the back of my neck. “A username? For an email?” he asks.

“Possible, though it's missing the rest of a typical email address and the perpetrator seemed to be using it as a reference as they moved through the woods. Unlikely the person would be referencing an email address. This number at the end is disconnected from the words, which are strung together as one. Instead of an email, this is probably a username for a website or forum of some kind. Although it's unclear why the numbers are included, perhaps that's related to a particular message board or--”

“Cabin number. Remember Alice describing the phone system? In-camp dialing matches cabin number. 001, 002, et cetera. This must be cabin 013,” John comments, pointing at the number. “Christ, Sherlock--whoever was going to be abducted must be in cabin 13!”

Reviewing our path of travel and correlating it with a map of the campgrounds proves him right, and I feel my stomach churn. “ ** _Is_** , John. Whoever _is_ going to be abducted. Just because they were stopped once does not mean the abductor won’t try again. In fact, with such a track record of successes, the person probably assumes we will let our guard down now that we’ve chased them off once and will probably be compulsive and narcissistic enough to give it another go.”

John takes a deep breath, looking up at the trees, and sighs. “S’pose we need to go look at the roster for that cabin and discuss security measures with Alice again. It’s never easy, is it?”

Smiling widely at him, I reach out to squeeze his shoulder, internally shouting with joy that I’m allowed to do this now. “Come now, John. It wouldn’t be very fun if it was easy, now, would it?”

He looks at me fondly and shakes his head. “No, I guess not. You’d be a right pain in the arse a lot more often, too. At least more than you already are.”

I chuckle to myself and lead us back toward the well-traveled path through the trees. As we walk, John laces his fingers with mine with a content hum. Above us, a mourning dove lets out its signature _whoo-whoo_ , while a frog croaks off to our left. A mosquito buzzes near my ear, and I swat at it with my free hand while John tightens his fingers around my other one, reminding me that he isn’t intending on letting go.

_I suppose I might be able to get used to this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there was much rejoicing! :D
> 
> Also, a clue!? Woo!!


	8. FUCK

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to update this chapter! I was out of the country, and my monthly prompt challenge with my two besties ended up grabbing my attention for a while. Hope it's worth the wait!

We decide to walk back along the path the perpetrator took towards the front of the camp, continuing to look for clues. John _holds my hand_ for most of the trip, except during times we need to climb over fallen logs or when he stops to wipe the sweat from his brow. As we approach the camp counselor cabins, it’s nearing lunchtime and our stomachs are growling their dissent. John mentions that a trail winds off between our cabin and the one next to it, so he navigates us towards it as a shortcut to the dining area.

“I’m starving,” John says, releasing me. He pauses between the cabins, pressing the palms of his hands into the small of his back to stretch. I’m about to open my mouth to reply when we hear a gasp, followed by a moan from inside the cabin. John frowns at me, then carefully creeps over to stand next to the open window, his head cocked as he listens.

Following suit, I lean against the cabin right as another loud, feminine moan erupts from inside. There’s a hiss and a groan, then a murmured, “ _God, yes…”_

John’s eyes widen in alarm as he turns to look at me for a moment. A light blush creeps up the sides of his neck as we listen to the panting breaths and guttural, involuntary sounds of pleasure coming from inside. I feel the low throb in my groin as John’s breath speeds up, clearly reacting to what we’re hearing. Standing close enough to feel his body heat and smell the musky mix of cedar soap and sweat while listening to the unmistakable sounds of sex is _unbearably_ arousing, and I’m forced to reach down to adjust my growing erection. Before withdrawing my hand, I give myself a couple quick squeezes, and an instinctual moan escapes my lips. John’s attention snaps back to me at the sound, his eyes lit up and a mischievous smirk on his lips as he considers the challenge, his own hand mirroring my movements.

Our eyes lock, and my blood pounds in my ears as I watch his soft, pink tongue dart out to wet his lips. My own throat feels impossibly dry as I swallow, attempting to maintain a handle on the urge to throw him against the wall and rut into him until we’re both gasping. _Not now_. _We’re in the woods._ **_NOT NOW._ **

John clearly has the same devious thought and suddenly pushes away from the cabin to stand in front of me, pressing his pelvis into mine. The action catches me off guard, my breath stuck in my throat as he envelopes me. I can feel the hard line of his cock pressing into my thigh, and I let my head fall back while I stifle a moan. The sounds of skin against skin speed up as the women inside lose control, and I find myself jealous that we aren't able to follow suit.

“Okay?” John whispers into my collarbone while he presses kisses into my fevered skin.

**_Yes, NOW!_ **

The best I can do is nod, panting into his hair while I wrap my arms around his shoulders to keep him close to me. His hand snakes under my shirt, a flat palm sliding up my ribcage while he continues his onslaught on my neck, biting into my trapezius. Pinching my left nipple between his thumb and index finger, he grinds his pelvis against mine, anything but gentle. My attention is split between the competing sensations, my thoughts spinning as I try to maintain control. Eventually, I lose the battle, a fog sliding into my brain as all I can do is feel _him_ , **_only_ ** _him._

I’m _breathless_ , a hand fisted in his hair while my other fingers are curled around his shoulder blade, my hips moving involuntarily as I seek release with him. He pops up onto the balls of his feet to align our cocks, his lips wet against my ear as he leans against me for support. The feeling of him, hard and hot against me, brings me ever closer to the edge as my blood throbs in my veins and my low abdomen grows heavy and warm.

_Fuck--_

_I can’t--_

“God, **Sherlock** , you’re so fucking, _oh_ , **_yeah_** , so fucking _beautiful_ like this,” he growls in my ear before sucking my earlobe between his teeth. I can hear his breath whistling through his nostrils as I tighten my grip against his scalp, tugging on his hair. He grunts and presses harder into me, our bodies curving around each other as we chase our orgasms together.

Inside, the first woman lets loose a muffled shout. “Christ, _yes_ , **_yes_**!”

The rough wood of the cabin scratches into my back as John thrusts up against me, his left hand planted flat on the wall next to my shoulder. This only serves to heighten my arousal, and I’m forced to bite down on my bottom lip to prevent myself from moaning too loudly.

“ _I want to hear you,_ ” John murmurs, his hot breath damp as he pants against the sensitive skin of my neck. “I want to hear you, _uhhh, mmm_ , like I did...like I did the other day when you, _mm_ , **_yeah, fuck_** , pulled yourself off because of me, _Sherlock_. You’re nearly there, love, _oh_ _God_ , **_yeahhh_** ,” he groans, his hips moving ever faster, ever harder as he loses himself in the sensations.

_This is--_

_Oh, God, I can’t--_

_Johnjohnjohnjohnjohnjohnjohn_ **_YES John!_ **

As the second woman inside moans her release, the onslaught of sensory information overloads me and I follow suit, an unintelligible shout escaping my lips as my belly quivers and my cock pulses in my pants. John’s hand wraps around to my back, his fingers spread wide against my skin as he yanks me against him and ruts twice more before burying his face in my shoulder and shaking against me, coming for what seems like an eternity.

We gasp together in the hot afternoon sun while we try to catch our breaths, sweat glistening on our skin as we stay wrapped around each other for several minutes. My knees are weak beneath me, the muscles in my thighs twitching spasmodically as I slump against the cabin. John lethargically presses his palms flat against the cabin next to me, every movement a monumental effort, before pushing himself away and looking up into my eyes.

“You are _brilliant_ ,” he purrs, a light smile playing at the corners of his lips. He brings his right hand up to cup my face, thumb brushing over my cheekbone. “I love you too, you know,” he adds without looking away. “And that’s not just the post-coital haze talking.”

Smirking, I wrap my arms around his torso and pull him up to me, our lips nearly touching. “Obviously,” I respond before giving him a small kiss.

Inside the cabin, we hear Brenda say, “Lil, I’m going to grab a bite before heading back to the ropes course. I have an afternoon session in a half hour. You coming?”

The other woman, clearly Lily, replies, “Already have, thanks,” with a giggle. Brenda chuckles, and we hear the sounds of footsteps as she crosses the cabin. “I’m going to shower before heading out. See you later, dear.”

“See you,” Brenda answers as she walks out the front door.

John and I flatten ourselves against the wall of the cabin and begin slinking around to the back, trying to stay out of sight. As we wait, holding our breath, we can’t help but make eye contact, shoulders shaking as we stifle our giggles.

“ _Stop it_ ,” John whispers, staring off into the woods while he tries to calm himself.

“You stop it,” I reply, turning away from him. “Let’s get cleaned up. My pants are sticking to me,” I add, reaching down to pluck the fabric away from my skin.

I hear John’s breath catch in his throat as he watches me, so I glance over and meet his eye. He draws his bottom lip in between his teeth, gaze wandering down my torso to settle on my damp trousers, pupils dilated despite the bright sun. “I can see that,” he murmurs. “Maybe next time I’ll taste you, hm?” he asks with a sly smirk.

Emboldened by our recent activities, I move to stand in front of him, caging him against the cabin with my arms. “Oh, John,” I growl in his ear. “There are so many things we are going to do to each other.”

He shudders beneath me, his eyes sliding shut for a moment while he breathes in deeply through his nose. “Sherlock,” he begins, enunciating the beginning of my name. “We’d best focus so we can solve this case and go home, mm?”

Smiling into the side of his neck, I sigh heavily and nod. “John Watson. You always keep me right.”

Nosing at my collarbone, he murmurs, “Someone has to. Now get off me so we can go change. We have work to do, Mr. Holmes.”

* * *

John is _very_ distracting. _I need to figure out how to manage it better._ I had to change in the loo to keep myself from tackling him to the bed once we got inside the cabin. He gave me a curious look as I shut myself in, cheeks ruddy from renewed interest in him as he stripped off his sweaty shirt. After several deep breaths and some washing up, we were ready to leave.

“So I guess Brenda wasn’t interested in me after all,” John says as we walk out of our cabin.

Turning towards the dining hall, I wave my hand dismissively in his direction. “Obviously,” is my reply, sounding as nonchalant as I can.

The gravel under his feet crunches as he stops for a moment, crossing his arms. “Oh, _shut_ it, you were nearly green anytime she spoke to me,” he argues.

Pausing to look back at him, I answer, “I didn’t have all the data.” He snorts in response, making a face at me.  “And women tend to be attracted to you,” I add before turning to walk again.

“Women?”

“People.” _How could they not?_

John just hums, and we continue on in silence, listening to the sounds of the forest around us. After several minutes, I comment, “Curious, their affair. They’re both married.”

“What?” he says as he turns to look in my direction, eyebrows drawn together in confusion.

With a knowing smile, I respond, “They’re both married to men.”

“They don’t wear rings.”

“You’re right, not _here_. The next time you see them, look at their left hands. There’s, of course, the obvious tells of indentations and differing skin tones, but the real clue is that they both reach with their thumbs to play with the rings that aren’t there. Unconscious fidgeting indicates engrained muscle memory, and they’re both at an age to be unhappy in their long term relationships. Therefore, an affair. _Obvious_.”

John hums as he considers, then asks, “Do you think it’s related to the disappearances?”

Shaking my head at him, I comment, “No, I think it’s related to their own infidelity, and little else.” We walk again in comfortable silence, each lost in our own thoughts.

 _The light coming through the trees makes his hair shine. It highlights the grey, turning it silver. It seems surreal that if I chose, I could reach out and run my fingers through it without any repercussions. In fact, he’d_ **_appreciate_ ** _it._

_Inconceivable._

“Fascinating,” John says quietly, breathless from the hike and midday heat.

Replaying the last couple of sentences from our previous conversation, I comment, “An affair? Hardly.”

Bumping his shoulder into mine, he replies, “No. _You_.”

_Me? What?_

(He finds _me_ fascinating!)

_We’re like lovesick teenagers. Ridiculous._

**(I like it.)**

Smiling to myself, I take the last couple of steps up into the dining area and flag down Alice. “A word?” I ask as I lean in close to her. She nods and follows John and I around the corner.

“Yes, Billy?” she asks, her expression bright.

“We walked the perimeter and found some evidence,” I begin, gesturing to John to pull out the scrap of paper. He hands it to her and she frowns, confused.

“I don’t understand,” she says quietly, turning it over in her hands. “What does it mean?”

John glances at me, his lips pressed together, and I nod for him to continue. “We think it’s a way to identify who will be abducted next. The first part looks like a username for a forum or website, and the second part looks like the cabin numbers. We’d like to take a look at the roster for cabin 013, please.”

Alice sighs, uncertain, her hands planted on her hips as she looks away. “I think we should call the police.”

I share a look with John, whose face says it all. I concede, relieved to act like myself again, and drop my voice lower as I explain, “Alice, my name is Sherlock Holmes. I’m a consulting detective from London, and this is John Watson, my…,” I trail off as a million labels fly through my mind. _Friend. Partner. Doctor._ **_Lover_** _._ The last one makes my stomach flip, so I settle on a less conspicuous option. “...companion. We were contacted by New Scotland Yard about this case after one of the parents of the previously missing children contacted them for help. We are here undercover attempting to identify the perpetrator and hopefully recover any children who might be still alive from the previous abductions, though the likelihood of that is--”

John throws an elbow at my ribs, glaring at me for my bluntness. “Timing,” he growls.

Alice watches our exchange, her eyes shining and lip trembling, then takes a deep breath and demands quietly, “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

_What? Why would I lie?_

(Not _everyone_ has heard of me.)

_Absurd. She goes to London regularly. She must have seen the papers. I’ve been on a case-solving spree for the past year. Clearly, she must be joking, or--_

“Do you have access to the internet?” John asks before I can open my mouth, knowing something snarky is likely to come out of it. _Obviously._

Alice nods, then turns towards the counselor cabins. “This way.”

We follow her on the short walk and she pulls out a small laptop once we get inside her cabin. “I have to keep it locked up, and the wifi signal is very short range, otherwise I have campers hacking it trying to post on Facebook and Tumblr and what have you. Not a true camp experience, you know?” She gestures for John to use the laptop once it’s unlocked, and he searches _Sherlock Holmes and John Watson_. Article after article pop up on Google, and he steps back for her to scroll through them. She picks a link at random, and it’s the news article about our recent case in London prior to coming out here. After about a minute, she closes the laptop lid and turns towards us, her face grim. “Okay. Let me get the roster.”

After some rummaging, she produces a short list of campers for us. John skims it, then hands it to me. “Anything out of the ordinary?” he asks under his breath as I look it over.

 _Name, date of birth, hometown, parents’ names, and parents’ phone numbers._ _Nothing useful._

No immediate patterns present themselves, so I shake my head and hand it back to Alice, having already committed it to my Mind Palace.

“Do you need me to make a copy?” she asks.

 _Laughable._ Shaking my head, I answer, “Unnecessary.”

“Won’t you forget? There are a lot of campers here,” she says, incredulous.

John throws her a lopsided smirk. “No, he won’t forget. He never forgets anything,” he replies, beaming at me. _I could snog him right here and now._

(No, stay focused!)

“Listen, we need discretion if we are to keep investigating. It’s likely that the person will return and attempt an abduction again, so we need to be able to intercept them before it happens. If it’s obvious we know, or have police here, they probably won’t try again and any chances of finding out what happened to the other teens will be lost. I know it’s hard to trust us, but _please_ ,” he pleads, wrapping his hands around hers. “We’re here to help.”

She nods, then pulls her hands out of his to swipe at a few stray tears under her eyes. “Let me know how I can help,” she says quietly.

John nods, smiling at her. “We will. For now, just keep our cover with us. No one else can know what we are really doing here.”

“Okay, sure. Thank you both for doing this,” she replies, throwing her shoulders back before gesturing towards the door. “If you'll excuse me, I need to prep for my next class.” John and I mutter our goodbyes and leave, the cabin door shutting swiftly behind us as we step off the porch of the cabin.

“Lunch?” I ask with a smile, though I have other ideas in mind.

“Starving. Let’s go.”

* * *

Very little happens for the next two days. John and I go about our business as camp counselors, teaching classes and keeping our eyes open for any potential new threats. _None, of course_. _Dreadfully boring._ Alice sets up a rotational nightwatch at the camper cabins with John’s help, which means John and I occasionally get time alone in our cabin without Nathaniel.

 _He is_ ** _bloody_** **_brilliant_** _._

John is beyond compare in all ways, and I find it hard to stay completely focused on any particular task when he's around. I've never had anything consume my attention like he does, with the exception of a case. Having two all-encompassing foci at once is an interesting mental challenge, especially given my complete lack of ability to do anything in moderation. It's a curious experiment on myself, finding some kind of balance between the two when all I crave is to pick one ( _John_ ) and be swept away. It's like walking on the beach and trying to keep one foot totally dry and the other totally wet, even though there are constant waves and the tide is coming in.

How I long to be swept away in the tsunami that is John Watson!

( **Focus!** John can wait!)

When it's my shift on night patrol, I put all of my effort on the case, taking advantage of the fact that I'm not listening to John's rhythmically entrancing breath until the wee hours of the morning. I am _certain_ of several points of interest, and looking forward to seeing them proven correct when we catch the person or people responsible for this.

 **_If_ ** _we do._

(Stop it. Review the case.)

1: The victims have something in common that we are unaware of.

2: The perpetrators are external to the camp, probably living in the nearby woods with very little access to the outside world with the exception of Internet.

3: The other teens in the cabin know when the abduction takes place and are covering it up.

4: The perpetrators identify their victims based on a website of some kind.

As we work with the kids, we take extra time getting to know the campers staying in 013, attempting to figure out if any of them are out of the ordinary. What we find is several young men, varying backgrounds and hometowns, interested in differing activities, from different socioeconomic statuses, et cetera, et cetera. _Dull_.

The _only_ thing mildly interesting about any of them is that one of the young men, Arthur, reminds me of myself at that age. He's gangly and awkward and doesn't seem to fit in, always on the outskirts observing until he makes a quick witted, cunning remark that knocks everyone off kilter. _Hilarious!_ He's clever and different, but not different enough that I'd consider him a potential target. He also abhors social media and forums, so the likelihood that he owns the pseudonym we found in the woods is low. A dead end.

_Again, dammit!_

In fact, it all seems like dead ends, and it’s **_infuriating_**.

“Nothing is happening. Nothing is changing. There is nothing new to go on, and the information we have is useless unless the abductor shows up again, John!” I complain as we walk through the woods after breakfast. It’s a cooler day than most, a soft breeze blowing in from the direction of the lake. The night was uneventful, although Nathaniel had the night rotation and so John and I were--

 **_Well_** _._ We were _busy_. Thinking about it makes my scalp tingle. _Distracting._

John sighs, looking up at the trees for a moment before reaching a hand over to me, his pinky looping around mine. “Maybe this is all it took to stop the abductions altogether. That’s good, right?”

_Don’t be boring, John. You’re better than that!_

“Not if I don’t solve the case!” I nearly shout, forgetting for a moment about our time together last night in my irritation. My free hand swats at a mosquito on the back of my neck as I groan, “What’s the **_point_ ** of it all if I don’t solve it?”

_Failure. Failure. Failure. Failure._

“Really?” he snaps, letting go of me to fold his arms over his chest.

_Bloody hell, don’t get cross with me, John._

“Oh, _what?_ You know the others have probably been killed by now! If I don’t _solve_ it, then all we’ve done is stop a child from being abducted _this_ year. We haven’t done anything to help the parents of previous years, and very likely next year the problem will continue, if not here then somewhere else,” I argue, blood pounding in my ears as I stare him down.

John chews on the inside of his bottom lip, nostrils flaring as he breathes deeply in an attempt to calm down. “Fine,” he concedes, voice tight. “Then _solve_ _it_.”

_Ugh, this is hateful! Now we’re arguing!_

Throwing him an eye-roll, I turn to walk toward the lake when Nathaniel comes sprinting down the path towards us. “Billy! John! Alice told me to get you immediately!” he yells, skidding to a halt on the gravel path in front of us, stones flying every direction. “One of the campers is missing!”

John looks at me, eyes wild in alarm, then turns to ask, “Who?”

Nate swipes at his forehead with the back of his hand, chest heaving as he catches his breath. “Joe. Cabin 013.”

_Fuck._


	9. Don't.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The BIG REVEAL!!
> 
> Sherlock and John finally, FINALLY solve the case. But, there's much more to it than expected, and the boys have a big decision to make.

_No! No no no no no no no no no--_

_The other kids know. They_ **_have_ ** _to know._

 _No,_ **_ridiculous,_** _why would they be in on it? Some sort of kid abducting, kid-run cult?_ **_Absurd_** _, it doesn’t make any sense, I don’t under--_

“The camp is on lockdown now. Everyone is in their cabins, all of us are meeting on the trail to talk about what we should do. Alice called the police,” Nate continues once he catches his breath. “She wants you two,” he adds, not bothering to hide his eye-roll.

John nods once, then catches my eye. “Better go, then,” he says with an expectant look.

 _\--stand._ **_How did I miss it?_ ** _We were_ **_watching_** _. Must have been that idiot Nathaniel, he was on duty last night and--_

“Billy?”

 _\--he fell asleep. He looks much too rested. Clearly he fell asleep and that’s why the child was abducted under our noses._ **_Fool!!_ ** _We’ll need to search the woods. I’ll tell John._

“Hey,” John says quietly, his hand on my arm. “Hey--”

_I need to see the cabin. I need to see the other bunkmates. They’ll know, I’ll be able to deduce it once I can lay eyes on them. They know something. They--_

“Sherlock,” John whispers, lips close to my ear. Startling, I jerk away from him and glare. “Slow down,” he says, eyes hooded with concern. “You’ll figure it out. We’ll find Joe.”

_Joe._

**_JOE_** _._

“John,” I begin, grabbing his forearms. “John, it’s Joe.”

He nods slowly. “Yeah, I heard Nate.”

“No, John. It’s **JOE** ,” I argue. _Doesn’t he see!?!_

“Yeah, we better--”

Huffing out a breath of frustration, I drop his arms and start stalking off towards the center of camp. Behind me, I can hear the scuffle of stones as John jogs to catch up, muttering something derogatory under his breath. _I can’t believe I didn’t see it before!_

As we approach the center of the cabins, Alice sees us and runs forward, her arms outstretched in an exaggerated gesture of angry confusion. “I _thought_ you said this would work!” she begins, visibly shaken and struggling against tears. “ _Now, look!_ Another child **lost** , and we have nothing to go on!”

John moves around me to soothe Alice, maneuvering between us as I stare, dumbfounded. “Nothing?” I challenge. “Let me see the cabin. Let me talk to the campers. It’s never _nothing_ , Alice.”

“What do you mean, _said this would work_?” Lily demands with a frown. “Did you know this was going to happen?” she accuses, walking over to me.

_Well of course it was going to bloody happen!!_

“Now, wait a mo,” John says, again shifting to stand between me and my accusers. _Always my protector, even when I don’t need it._ “He’s been trying to help. We all have. Let’s just calm down and try to think rationally about what we need to do. Yelling at each other isn’t going to help get Joe back,” he suggests with a shrug. “Alice, you called the local police? Did you call New Scotland Yard?”

Nate chooses this moment to walk over, his eyebrows high with alarm. “New Scotland Yard? Why would we call them?” He fidgets with the hem of his tee, running the stitching between his thumb and forefinger while blinking erratically. **_Guilt_** _._

_Teenage delinquent. Spent time in juvenile lockup in London for shoplifting, vandalism. Moved away as soon as probationary period expired._

_Unrelated to abductions. Moving on._

“Nothing to do with your minor stint in juvy, _Nate_ ,” I snap before whirling around to walk towards cabin 013.

“ _What?_ ” he says behind me, but I’m already at the door, ready to gather data. In the distance, I hear John’s quiet but firm voice asking Melissa to call Lestrade, giving her his office phone number and clear instructions to _mention Sherlock_ and that we _need help_.

 _Ridiculous. We don’t_ **_need_ ** _his help._

_No evidence of forced entry at doorway. Sweep around the building shows nothing but clear path of exit following abduction. We’ll follow that after I’m done here. Need to get as much data as possible before the local police come and muck it all up, the useless, pathetic--_

“Anything yet?” John asks as I make my way back around to the front of the cabin.

“Exit path is so obvious even _you_ could follow it,” I reply while examining the doorframe a second time.

John sighs, looking away from me, and says, “I have tracking experience, Sherlock. A _lot_ of it, I might add. And, for the record--”

“Why did you say we needed help? _I don’t need help_ , John.”

“No, no, _of course not._ _You_ never need help. What _I_ need is someone else who understands what a massive arsehole you are and can stop me from murdering you,” he growls, hands planted firmly on his hips. “And you need someone who will vouch for you once the locals get the itch to throw you in a cell.”

“ _Irrelevant_ ,” I throw at him with a wave of my hand. _Nothing else of note on the outside. Time to examine the interior and see the campers. Time is running out, John! Can’t you see?!_

He stares at me, face deadpan, before shaking his head and licking his lips. “ _Fine_ , fine. You’re frustrated. Just...stop abusing me and let me help, yeah?” he says while I reach for the doorknob to the cabin. It clicks open easily, and I hurl it open without hesitation. The young men inside are seated on their bunks and jump, turning to stare at me as I stride into the cabin.

“Oh, hello!” I announce jovially. “Now tell me, which of you is transphobic and assisted in Joe’s abduction and likely murder?”

The teens stare in shock, mouths agape, before all of them start talking at once.

“I don’t know nothin’!”  

“Why would I--”  

“My sister, dude, my sister is--”

“Is someone killing trans--”

“Fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!”

From behind me, “ **Bloody hell** , Sherlock! Sorry, lads, he’s just...trying to help and apparently has **no bloody filter**!” John hollers.

“Why do I _need_ a filter? A child has been abducted and you know as well as I that the first 24 hours are crucial. We have already lost a significant portion of that time,” I argue. “These are _practically adults_ going by their own standards,” I add with the wave of my hand, “and I refuse to patronize them.”

The teens look around at each other, clearly trying to decide who should speak up, when the clear leader of the bunch takes a tentative step forward. “Look, Mr. Billy, we were bein’ nice to ‘im. None of us were miffed about it. He seemed...well, different, but we kept trying to talk to ‘im. If it were me, I’d want people to treat me normal, so that’s what we did. No one here knows what happened or where he went. Maybe he went home, or sumthin’?” he suggests with a shrug, looking around at his companions for support. They nod enthusiastically at him and each other, then turn to look at me for approval.

_Obvious innocence._

**_I’m an idiot._ ** _Of course they don’t know. Children are rubbish at keeping secrets. Highly improbable that cabins full of teens over several years would be successful at maintaining silence for this long._

“Sherlock?” John asks, a hand on my elbow. “All set here?”

_John, oh John, such good instincts._

A sweep around the cabin reveals nothing out of the ordinary.

_Except--_

“Where is Joe’s suitcase?” I demand, stalking over to his bed and looking under it.

The spokesman for the cabin follows me and looks around, coming up empty-handed. “Dunno. Maybe he took it with him when he left,” he suggests with another shrug.

“He _left_ ,” I repeat.

_He left._

_HE_ **_LEFT_** _._

“Come along, John!” I shout, twirling away to leave the cabin. I hear John’s muttered curse as he runs to keep up, the door to the cabin slamming shut behind us.

“Sherlock, _wait_ ,” he snarls as he grabs my forearm, stopping us both. “Just slow down a minute, would you? Remember what we talked about before we got into all this?! You have _got_ to let me in on whatever is racing around inside that head of yours _before_ you go rushing off on your own!” John’s chest is heaving, his cheeks flushed as he catches his breath and tries to quell his frustration with me.

 _Let him be frustrated. I’ve been an_ **_idiot_** _._

(He’s right, though.)

“ _He left,_ John,” I explain. “He wasn’t abducted. He _left_. He even took his suitcase, you saw it! That’s why there’s no sign of a struggle. No witnesses. Nothing. They vanish without a trace. I’ve been treating it like they’re victims, but in reality--”

“They’re _running away_ ,” John finishes for me, realization dawning on him. He drops his hand off my arm, then reaches up to rub the back of his neck. “Why would they run away, Sherlock? What are they running from?”

With a glance towards the woods ahead of us, I shrug and throw him a smirk. “I have an idea, but I think we ought to follow Joe’s tracks and see for ourselves.”

Throwing his shoulders back, John straightens his shirt and nods at me, the hint of a smile playing around his eyes. He’s gorgeously handsome like this, standing tall with the morning sun streaming in through the treetops, catching on the highlights in his hair. The adrenaline flooding my veins mere moments ago tingles in my fingertips while my heart races, the edge of the solution to the case in sight. I can feel it in my very bones, drawing me to it as my thoughts continuing weaving together everything I’ve experienced and learned since arriving here.

For once, I’m thankful that my initial instincts about this case were completely and utterly wrong.

“Let’s go, then,” John finally says with a gesture to the trail made by Joe that leads off into the forest.

Smiling at him, feeling the softness in my face as our eyes meet, I respond, “After you.”

A light blush creeps onto his cheeks ( _because of me!)_ and he returns my smile before turning away and crouching to examine the footprints in the soft earth. “Definitely two sets of tracks here. Should we tell Alice?”

“Let’s wait until we have something to tell,” I respond, wiping some sweat from my brow.

He stands and we start following the impromptu path, pausing every so often to look at a broken branch or the remnants of a print. Several times as we walk, there are clear indications that the pair stopped to rest, the indentation of Joe’s suitcase evident in the underbrush. The sun moves high into the sky as we track, walking further and further away from first the center of the camp, then the camp itself.

“This is the edge of the campgrounds,” John mutters as we step over the dilapidated wooden fence.

I keep my internal _Obviously_ to myself.

Another kilometre into the woods, and we stumble upon signs of wood chopping and tree clearing. John pauses, frowning, and walks over to touch the edge of a stump that was clearly cut with tools, not knocked down by a storm, old age, or animals. He sighs, fingers tracing the clean edge for an extra moment, before he stands and looks around.

“Sherlock, this is recent,” he comments quietly, his voice sounding like a megaphone in the still air of the deep forest. “Someone’s doing logging out here.”

Glancing around us, I identify three other trees that met the same fate. “ _Clearly_ ,” I comment, taking another few steps forward until the breeze moves past, carrying with it the scent of a campfire.

“John,” I begin, following my nose. “Someone’s having a fire.”

He sniffs loudly behind me, then confirms with a hum. We walk together as quietly as we can in the direction of the smell, stepping over fallen trees and avoiding briars. The path starts opening up as we walk, evidence that this area is more often traversed that the path leading out the camp.

_Consistent with my hypothesis._

“Sherlock,” John whispers, hand snatching at my arm. “Look!” He points ahead of us to a clearing containing a small shack surrounded by a couple sizable gardens, a woodpile under a shelter, and an active campfire with a spit above it. A few teens are spread out amongst the site, plucking weeds, chopping wood, and watching whatever is roasting above the fire. On the porch of the cabin are a few roughshod rocking chairs. One of them is occupied by Joe, who seems perfectly content, talking with an older looking female. “What _is_ this?” John whispers, creeping forward.

As I’m about to answer, there’s a _snap_ behind us and the barrel of a shotgun is pressed into my back.

 _Dammit_.

“Easy now,” a gruff voice commands. “Hands up. Turn around.”

John jerks at the sound, startled, then immediately throws his hands up and looks at me, eyes wide. Raising my hands to shoulder height, I nod at him and turn around, unsurprised by what I see.

Standing in front of us is a young transgender man, approximately age 17, holding a shotgun pointed directly at us. His eyes dart back and forth between us, assessing, before he cocks his head and asks, “What are you doing here?”

John raises his hands higher as if reinforcing our helplessness, and replies with a calm voice, “We’re just looking for someone who might be lost.”

The young man blinks twice, then responds, “ _No one_ is lost here.”

In the corner of my eye, I see John purse his lips, biting back an argument about Joe.

“I agree,” I begin slowly, choosing my words carefully. “No one is lost, here. Not even us. We aren’t going to hurt you, we just want to understand. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I--”

“We know who you are. Bailey’s dad is obsessed with you. Not surprised he called you,” the teen interrupts, rolling his eyes. “But _you_ _know_ , we’re _happy_ here. **All of us**.”

“I’m sorry, what?” John asks. “I missed something.”

Taking a breath, I glance at our captor for permission. He frowns, then nods, hands tightening on the shotgun. _Time to get it right._

“This is a safe haven for transgender teens, John. They haven’t been abducted at all, they’ve run away to live here together, in the woods. I can’t _believe_ I didn’t figure it out before today. I should have checked their medical and social histories. It would have been immediately clear that they all had this in common!” I explain, exasperated with myself. The teen in front of us listens, then slowly lowers the gun. “It’s clever, really. Outcasts in their regular lives, shunned by parents and peers for being _different_ , so they run away to make their own society! If I had something like this for sociopaths when I was a teenager...well, it probably wouldn’t have gone as well as this, actually, given how abrasive and erratic our behavior can be...not the best _team players_ , as you know--”

“Sherlock,” John interrupts. “Timing?”

 _Right, of course._ _The case_.

“What’s your name?” I ask our captor with a smile.

“Uh,” he starts, looking nervously around him. “I don’t know if I--”

“We aren’t going to hurt you, son,” John adds gently. “Or anyone else, for that matter.”

After fidgeting awkwardly, the teen answers finally, “My name is Lee.”

“Lee...do you mind showing us around?” my partner asks. “Please?”

After a couple moments of consideration, Lee nods and drops the shotgun completely. He walks around in front of us, gesturing with his head to follow him. He moves away from the treeline and enters the clearing, waving his hand at the young woman seated on the cabin porch with Joe. The woman waves back, standing as she notices John and I walking behind Lee. The rest of the kids in the clearing stop their tasks and circle around us, their heads cocking curiously to the side as they look us over. Beside me, John stares with his mouth agape, eyes scanning the small crowd as he no doubt catalogs the various children that have gone missing over the years. As we approach the center of the clearing, I’m able to see inside the cabin and notice a small computer screen with a social media platform pulled up. There’s clear evidence of electricity, despite the isolated nature of the community, and off to the right there’s an old, beat up truck parked near the trees.

And, as I expected, all of the teens appear transgender or androgynous in nature.

“Clever,” I compliment, taking it all in. Several of the young adults smile shyly to themselves or make faces at each other at the comment, pleased with themselves.

“Resourceful,” John adds with a nod. “How do you all maintain your HRT?”

Lee glances at the young woman in front of us, who smirks and replies, “Mail order. You can find anything on the internet.”

“The username. Which platform?” I ask.

Behind us, a few teens snicker, then one replies, “The only safe one there is.”

“Tumblr, then,” I comment. “Of course. Should have figured that one out.”

“You have quite a fan following in the LGBTQ community on there by the way,” the young woman, clearly the leader, comments. “Everyone knows you two are shagging.” Around her, the other kids snicker to each other, elbowing each other in the ribs and nodding enthusiastically.

John, his face flushed, snorts and counters, “Why does everyone assume that?!”

“ _John_ ,” I warn.

At that, several teens lose their composure and start walking away, laughing to themselves and muttering comments like _knew it_ and _so obvious_. John watches them, his mouth agape, then turns back to glare at me in frustration.

“Well, it's none of your business anyway,” he finally adds, throwing his shoulders back in a semblance of defiance. “So... your name is?” he asks the woman in front of us.

“Bailey,” she replies. “I'm sort of in charge I guess? At least for getting supplies and handling new...members.”

“Right, Bailey. What's the story here then? Why did you all... Did all of you run away?”

She nods, then turns to gesture at the cabin. “Let's go sit and talk. Now that you know about us, I need you to understand so you'll leave us alone. I want you to forget about us.” Bailey turns and walks towards the cabin, not bothering to watch us follow her. John throws me a look of incredulity before striding after her. Bringing up the rear, I take the opportunity to observe more of the camp, noting the clear ingenuity and engineering talent of the people residing here. _Impressive._

Once we are settled, Bailey begins her story.

“My father, who no doubt sent you to find me, has never been very accepting of me. Kept telling me this was a phase, that I was ill or confused. Finally his cruelty was too much and I went away to summer camp just to get a break. I guess I always knew I would run away at some point, and so one night I snuck out and came across this place. I knew this was _it_ for me. This was going to be how I found my freedom.

“After I lived here for a couple months, I ventured out and got myself the truck. Then, slowly, I just kept getting things I needed. Easiest place to borrow from is the camp of course. If I can, I try to replace the stuff I take. Once I got a new cell phone, I made sure I set up a mobile hotspot so I could access the internet from time to time. That’s how I maintain the Tumblr account, and that’s how I connect with other trans and non-binary teens looking for escape. Over the years, the _trans camp in the woods_ has become a beacon--the one safe place we know we can exist without judgment. You _can’t_ take that away from us, Mr. Holmes. And you _won’t._ ”

“What makes you think that?” John asks.

Shaking my head, I explain, “Because how could an outcast like myself take away something I’ve always yearned for, John?”

“What d’ya mean?” he replies, eyes blinking rapidly in disbelief.

“ ** _Acceptance_** , John. They couldn’t find acceptance in their own lives, so they created it for themselves here. How could I possibly take that away from them?”

“‘Scuse me? You’re joking. These are missing _children_ , Sherlock. They’re minors--they can’t make decisions like this for themselves!”

“Why?”

The look he gives me is downright shocked. “Because it’s _illegal_ , that’s why!”

“Just because something is a law doesn’t mean it’s always right or in the best interests of the citizens it is supposed to protect,” I remind him. He snorts to himself, unwilling to agree but knowing I’m right. “In this circumstance,” I continue, looking away from his pained expression. “Following the law would most likely place these children back into abusive environments and a society that refuses to understand people who are _different_ . You’ve seen firsthand what it does to... _others_. They may be minors, but they are much better off _here_ than being forced to go back to _that._ ”

“No. _No_ , Sherlock, their parents are grieving. They don’t even know if their children are alive. I can’t go back to London knowing that I could provide dozens of worried parents relief. _I just can’t_ , **and I won’t.** There are ways to repair relationships like this. They could go to therapy together, get advocates, state involvement, something! Pretending to be dead is not the answer!”

Bailey is quick to defend herself as she snaps, “Do _not_ assert you know right from wrong for us, Dr. Watson. Some of us have lived here for years and are doing just fine. Better, even, than we were before. We do not _need_ our parents, and our parents do _not_ **_want_** us. Not like this.”

“Sherlock,” John argues, staring at me.

Meeting his eye, I raise my eyebrows in question. He stares a moment longer before slamming his hands down on his knees and jolting upright. His hands clench at his sides as he breathes shakily through his nose before stalking off towards the woods.

“We will leave before anyone can find us, you know,” Bailey says quietly while she watches him. “I can do this again, and this time I'll have help. No one will know.”

As John disappears into the trees, I nod at her and stand. “I know. Give me time with him. If I can't convince him, I'll let you know so you can leave.”

Bailey rises next to me, eyes red-rimmed and watery with appreciation as she smiles. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I knew you'd get it.”

Raising a hand in goodbye, I hop off the porch and head towards my enraged doctor, my stomach a nervous pit and my heart pounding in my chest as I run through the various arguments he will try once I reach him.

It isn't long before the -- _my_ \-- sandy-haired man comes into view, his shoulders shaking while he leans against a tree.

“John.”

**“Don't.”**


	10. Storms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nearing the conclusion of the case, Sherlock and John have to find a way to reconcile their differing beliefs about what to do with the teens in the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter count increased! I was working on these final scenes and as I approached 4k words in this chapter, still expecting two more large scenes before I could finish the story, I had to split this out into two.

“ _John_ ,” I begin again, hoping to sway him.

“I mean it, _Sherlock_. **Give me a minute** ,” he snaps, his voice tight.

I want to touch him, but I know I shouldn’t. I want to take him in my arms, to hold him against my chest until this ridiculous rage dissolves, but I know it won’t work. (I wish.) _Never good enough._

I _need_ to touch him, and I almost do, but I don’t want to get chinned so I refrain. His shoulders shrug forward as he keeps his back to me, still leaning against an elm tree. The sounds of the forest around us seem to die away while I wait for him to calm down, my heart thudding in my ears in time with my breath. Finally, his back straightens and he swipes a hand across his face, palm scrubbing at his mouth.

Inhaling, I open my mouth to speak when he interrupts me. “ **No**. _You_ will _wait_.”

Clamping my lips together, I bite back whatever I was considering saying and nod, watching him as he turns to face me. Instead of the red-cheeked rage I’m expecting, his face tells a different story.

_He’s hurt._

His eyes are red-rimmed and watery, the lids puffy and pink. The vein in his neck is throbbing against the thin skin of his throat with the surge of adrenaline from our earlier fight, and his hands are clenched and shaking at his sides. He stares at me, blinking back more tears, and the urge to crawl inside my own rib cage in shame is _overwhelming_. Instead I do my best to hold his gaze, though eventually I have to look away before dissolving into tears myself.

“Sherlock--”

“ _John_ ,” I interrupt, unable to stand it any longer. “Let me explain.” _Please!_

“ _No one_ is alone, you know. Not even _you_ ,” he says quietly. “Unless you _really_ think you are, in which case…,” he pauses, breathes. “I don’t know what we’re doing, then. I don’t know what the bloody hell _I’m_ doing _with_ **_you_** _._ ” The acid in his voice makes me cringe, and for once in my life I feel completely speechless. He waits for me, the swirl of emotions evident on his face while I remain silent.

Eventually, he gives up. “ **Fine** , Sherlock. _Okay_. A misunderstanding, then. Here I thought you might _actually_ **love** **me**. Guess I’m just wrong about _everything_ today, yeah?”

_Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck_

“Well, I can’t just let these kids be trusted to make this decision for themselves. When they’re adults they can stop talking to their parents if they want. _But not now._ I’m going back to tell Alice and the police.” With that, he turns to walk away, his feet dragging in the fallen leaves.

 _GODDAMMIT_ **_TALK_ ** _TO_ **_HIM_ ** _!_

“ _John_ ,” I whisper. “John, _please_.”

He freezes, every muscle in his body tightening at my voice.

“I--no. You’re _never_ wrong, John. About _anything_ ,” I begin, my chest opening up with the flood of emotion. Where usually I would turn away from this tide, hide the vulnerability behind layers of bravado and arrogance, in this moment I give in. I _let it_ overtake me, the pressure behind my ribs intense as my mouth keeps moving while he turns back to face me. “ _I am not alone._ I haven’t been since the moment you stepped into Bart’s lab. I just know what it feels like to be _so_ different, so _shunned_ , and to feel so _utterly_ alone. I want...I just want these kids to never have to feel that again. It _breaks_ people, John. It makes them collapse in on themselves until they believe what everyone says about them and then they become a self-fulfilling prophecy. They’ll sabotage themselves to prove how isolated they are, and they deserve better than _that_. They don’t have to be alone, John, _not here.”_

_They don't have to live the life I did._

He shuts his eyes against the swell of fresh tears at my words, his shoulders slumping as he releases his anger at me. Above us, the trees start swaying with a sudden gust of wind while the sun disappears behind a dark cloud. My brain barely registers the telltale signs of an oncoming storm as I watch John consider my words. I can feel the threads of connection between us strengthening as he looks me in the eye again, his face opening into a sad smile. “They don’t have to be alone _anywhere_ if they have the right people in their lives.”

_Like you._

Glancing down at my feet, I nod. “I know.”

“Come here,” he whispers, and I’m in his arms before I fully register the weight of his words. “ _I love you_ ,” he adds as he wraps his arms around me, body pressed tight to mine. “I'm sorry, for before.” A hand snakes up the back of my neck and weaves itself into my hair as I bury my face in his shoulder, comforted by his scent and warmth.

Around us, there’s a sudden shift in the air as the barometric pressure drops and a crack of thunder echoes through the forest. The sky opens up, unrelenting, as fat, warm drops of rain crash down upon us, stinging my skin as they smack into my body. The wind howls in the trees, shaking the branches and bending the trees in the storm. A deep part of my brain considers the inconvenience of being soaked through, but it’s quickly silenced as John pulls away to peer at my face. The pain from before hasn’t left his features, instead shifting into something more complex as he looks me in the eyes. His hair is plastered to his forehead, golden strands now dark brown in the downpour encompassing us.

Something about him wrapped around me, drenched and yet warm, curls deep in my core. The moment is acutely grounding: his heartbeat against mine, the strength in his arms around my torso, the way his skin glistens in the rain, and press of his pelvis into the tops of my thighs. Simultaneously, the whipping wind in my ears, the invisible cuts of rain on my face and arms, the feeling of droplets streaming from my curls down my forehead and the back of my neck--it’s _overwhelming_. My senses tingle with hypersensitivity, and I feel the flutter of panic in my chest at the sensations. Time slows to a crawl as my heart speeds out of control, breath so fast in my nostrils that I don’t think I can inhale deeply.

_Too much, too much!_

John senses the onslaught in my body and holds me tighter to him with one arm while the other pulls my head down to his. The whisper of his lips against mine is enough to pull me from the brink, and then he _devours_ me. Lips, tongue, teeth, cheeks, mouth, stubble--he draws me inside him and dissolves the rest of the world for me.

_Nothing matters._

**_Nothing_** **_exists_** _._

Nothing except John, my protector and friend, my love and confidant and the ultimate acceptance. My doctor, my partner, and the man who knows how to fill in the cracks of my soul.

The storm may rage on around us, but he reminds me that when we have each other, it doesn’t matter. _None_ of it does.

He pulls away and again looks me in the eyes, a smile curling the corners of his lips. “Fuck, Sherlock. I’m never going to get used to that.”

Nuzzling his cheek with my nose, I nod. _Me either!_ We stand together for a long time, the rain continuing around us, until my thoughts return to the teens and something John said earlier.

_There are ways to repair relationships like this. They could go to therapy together, get advocates, state involvement, something!_

The web of details about this case materializes as his words roll around in my mind. They stood out to me. Correction: _one_ of them stood out to me. _Which?_

 **_Therapy_**.

 _She’s actually a proper art therapist,_ Alice said.

The nodes of the web connecting Melissa and these teens glow, making our path clear.

_Obvious._

“John,” I murmur in his ear. He responds with a throaty hum, evidence of the mix of his emotional state and likely arousal. “I know what we need to do about the kids.”

He yanks his head back from me, eyes wide. “You do?”

Resting my lips against his forehead, I nod. “I do.”

I can feel the sigh as it flows through his body, relaxing his shoulders and making him slump against me. “ _Of course_ you do.”

“ _Of course_ I do,” I echo with a smirk. “We have to go back to the camp. We need Melissa.”

John, my clever and brilliant and wonderful John, takes less than five seconds to figure out my idea. His head thumps against my chest for a moment, his arms wrapping again around my back. “Right.”

Planting one last kiss in his hair, I reluctantly pull away from him and smile. “You are _brilliant_ ,” I compliment. “Let’s go solve this case and save the kids and go home so I can properly shag you.”

He throws me a grin, his cheeks flushing. “Try not to insult the police too many times, would you?”

“I’m not insulting. I’m merely describing. It isn’t my fault they’re _incompetent_.”

* * *

The rain subsides by the time we reach the camp, which is oddly quiet considering the current circumstances. John follows me through the main trails until we reach the dining hall, which is filled with the camp counselors and a collection of police officers. _No Lestrade yet. Dammit!_ A shared glance with John sends him into the fray, looking for Melissa. After speaking with both Alice and Brenda, John returns to me, shaking his head.

“She’s in her cabin. Alice said she’s pretty shaken by all of this,” he murmurs as he leans close to me. A drop of rain from his hair rolls down his nose, and he snuffles while he wipes it away with the meat of his thumb. _Everything he does is attractive. It's_ **_absurd_ ** _the effect he has on me._ He flashes me a quick smile when he sees me watching him, then nods towards the doorway.

We’ve nearly left the mess hall when a local police officer steps in our path, his hands raised. “Whoa, gents. Where you off to?”

_None of your bloody business!_

John moves in front of me immediately and gives him a charming grin. “Just going to check on our friend, Melissa. She’s having a rough go of it.”

“Have you given your statements?” the officer asks without budging away from the door.

_Oh dear God, really?!_

“I’m Sherlock Holmes, and I’m a consultant from New Scotland Yard. If you phone Detective Inspector Lestrade, who is on his way here now, you’ll find that statements from us aren’t necessary. Now, if you’ll excuse us…”

“Don’t care if you’re the bloody _Queen_ , Mr. Holmes. You are here, you’re an adult, and you need to give a statement about the disappearance of Christine Washburn.” He pulls a notepad out from his jacket pocket and clicks his pen. “Where were you when--”

“ _Joe_ Washburn. _His_ name is _Joe_ ,” I correct with a glare. _Pathetic._

The deputy frowns, confused, and flips back through his notes. “No, I have down here that a young woman, Christine, has gone missing. Is there another missing child?”

“Just the one,” John replies for me with a warning look in my direction. **_Please_** _, John! You know as well as I that this a waste of time!_ “He’s transgender and goes by Joe here.” Resting his hand on my shoulder, John adds, “And at the time Joe went missing, we were in bed, right, love?”

_What!?_

All traces of fight and irritation in me evaporates as I turn slowly to stare at my companion, who deliberately licks his lips. Warm prickles creep up the back of my neck while I nod and croak out, “Yep. In bed.”

The deputy in front of us gapes, his cheeks pink and eyes wide while he jots something down in his notepad. “And you are?” he asks John with a nod.

“John Watson. Also here as a consultant at the request of New Scotland Yard. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we do have a friend to go check on, deputy.”

The officer nods and replaces his notepad and pen, stepping aside. “I’ll be phoning DI Lestrade to confirm your role here, gents.”

“ _Obviously_ ,” I mutter, pushing past him with John in tow. Once out of earshot, I glance at him and ask, “Love?”

He smirks, blinking at me, and asks, “Problem?”

“None at all.”

 _Unless you count my intense_ **_need_ ** _to be tackled by you,_ **_John Watson._ **

A few moments later and we’re at Melissa’s cabin, which is closed and locked. John knocks on the door, but she ignores him. Inside, we can hear the sounds of her moving about, and the occasional sob as she paces. John finally resorts to knocking again while shouting her name, and finally she opens the main door to stare at us. Her cheeks are ruddy and tear-stained, and her hair looks disheveled from her distraught tugging.

“I already spoke to the police,” she says while reaching into her pocket for a tissue. “I told them what I know.” She blows her nose so hard that she is forced to turn away and violently cough.

John leans forward, his head cocked to the side as he quietly comments, “Melissa, we know where they are. _All_ of them.”

Her eyes, a stormy blue, flash wide. She scowls, her bottom lip trembling as fat tears again slide down her cheeks. “I don’t want to know!” she sobs out, her hand flying up to her mouth in horror.

She’s about to slam the door when I add, “They’re alive, and they _need_ you.”

Melissa’s mouth drops open as she blinks at us, her hand reaching to open the screen door for us. “Tell me what to do.”

John beams at me, and I feel the swell of pride in my chest as our eyes lock. We let the moment linger before entering her cabin and taking seats at the table while she pours herself a glass of water. The trash in the corner is overflowing with wadded up tissues, and her suitcase is out on her bunk with an array of clothing hastily shoved into it.

_Running. Can’t blame her._

She leans against the wall opposite us and nods for us to start. John defers to me, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed while I take a deep breath and begin.

“Bailey was the first to leave,” I begin, and Melissa nods soberly, clearly remembering the moment. “They’ve all been running away from a society that cannot accept anything other than biological male and female. They’re all trans or non-binary, living in the woods together. They’re completely isolated from the society that refuses to accept or acknowledge them.”

The woman shakes her head slowly, processing the information. “How can I help?” she finally asks after a few minutes of consideration. “They can’t just live in the woods on their own.”

John nods in agreement. “Sherlock has an idea.”

“Alice said you’re an actual therapist. We need your expertise and training to get these teens to see how important it is for them to return home, and for their parents to accept their new identities and names and genders. You can be their advocate for a healthier life, back with their parents until they are old enough to decide for themselves,” I suggest.

Melissa is speechless, her eyes wide while she takes a deep breath in through her mouth. Her gaze unfocuses as she thinks, and John and I remain silent to allow her the time she needs to consider our proposal. Finally, she returns to us and nods with a small smile. “Okay. We need to call the parents, then, right?”

“Right,” John agrees. “And we need to talk with the police and tell them what’s going on.”

“Do you think they’ll agree to this?” Melissa asks as she walks into the bathroom to splash water on her face.

_Irrelevant._

“Does it matter?” I ask, rising from my chair.

The art therapist walks out to face me, her face incredulous. “Of _course_ it matters. It’s the _police._ ”

“Your point being?”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John warns. “They need to know what’s happening, at the very least. I’ll handle that, considering your track record with them. You should call Lestrade before we leave and see where he’s at. We need him to make sure you don’t end up down at county holding before the end of the day, hm?” His tone is firm, but the smirk on his face shows how amusing he would find that situation if it happened. _Arsehole._

Regardless my thoughts on the matter, I agree to appease him and dial Lestrade from the phone in the kitchen. He picks up immediately, his voice wired from too much coffee. “DI Lestrade.”

“Graham,” I start. “How is your drive going?”

“ _Greg_. Hi, Sherlock. Nearly there. Tell me you’ve got something,” he pleads. “The press knows you’re there somehow.”

“Of course I’ve _got_ something. ETA, Detective Inspector?” I ask nonchalantly.

“Less than an hour. Bout to lose signal, too. These woods, eh?”

“You’re cutting out. See you in an hour,” I comment before hanging up. “John, you tell the police what’s going on and get them to call the parents of the missing children. Melissa, you and I are going to the camp to pay the teens a visit and let them know what the plan is. They know you already, and they trust you, so it’s more likely they’ll come back to the camp with us if you’re there. John, have the parents at the camp by three this afternoon at the mess hall.”

His face is serious as he nods, gaze lingering on mine for a moment before he turns away. Despite Melissa’s presence, I reach forward to grab his forearm and force him to face me. Looming over him, I murmur, “Is this an acceptable solution?”

Eyes soft, he smiles and replies, “Thank you, Sherlock.” Popping up onto the balls of his feet, he plants a gentle kiss on my cheek before turning to whisper in my ear, “Be careful, please.”

“Clearly. I expect you’ll do the same.”

John’s nods and slides his hand along my jaw, his thumb resting on my bottom lip for a moment. The world melts away for a moment as we silently promise each other, then separate. The screen door slams behind him as he leaves, and I feel the air leave the cabin with him. A weight settles low in my abdomen, and I’m forced to shake my head in an effort to clear the dark swirl of my thoughts. Departing without John feels unnatural, though I know rationally it’s necessary for us to split up to ensure this plan works. In the past we’ve divided up to conquer more ground, or move more efficiently forward on a case, and it never seemed to bother me like it does today.

_Sentiment, perhaps._

As we walk through the woods, Melissa is quiet and aware, observing without speaking. It’s refreshing, and I appreciate her ability to allow for silence without the incessant need to fill it like so many others. As we approach the camp, I motion for her to wait for a moment while I enter the clearing. Bailey sees me immediately and walks over from the cabin, expression carefully guarded.

“So?” she asks, eyes narrowing as she peers around me towards the woods. “You’re not alone.”

“Correct. Join us?” I call behind me. Melissa approaches slowly from the treeline, her gaze roaming around the camp as she walks forward.

Bailey’s eyes widen substantially as she watches the therapist, the color draining from her face. “Melissa.” She steps around me and stares at her former camp counselor, who can’t stop the slow and steady stream of tears flowing from her eyes. The two women embrace and Bailey breaks down in Melissa’s arms, her form shuddering as she sobs.

Aware of the time and our need to convince the teens to join us on our journey back to the camp, I clear my throat as they pull away from each other. Melissa takes a deep breath and nods, holding Bailey by the shoulders. “Let me help your parents understand.”

The younger woman pulls away with a frown, shaking her head. “They don’t want to.”

“You don’t know that. They’ve spent so long thinking you were dead, Bailey. They might be more open to a conversation now if they knew what happened and why,” Melissa pleads, her voice choked and tight. “ _I want to help._ We all do. You can’t stay out here forever. What if someone gets hurt? Running is not the answer.”

Bailey looks back towards the garden where a few teens are working diligently on picking green beans and snap peas.

“You knew you had to go back,” I supply quietly. Her head snaps back to look at us, her face an open book. Fear, anger, sadness, hurt--they flit across her features rapidly.

“I’ll be your advocate, Bailey. I’ll advocate for all of you. But you have to come with us,” Melissa insists. “All of you have to come. Now.”

Bailey looks around the camp one more time, clearly warring with herself over the options. “Police?” she asks finally, her voice a tremulous whisper.

“Yes, of course,” I answer. “But, one of them is my friend. He trusts me, and I trust him.”

She bites her bottom lip, her gaze distant, before finally nodding to herself. “Let me get everyone together,” she says. “I can’t make them go, but if I tell them why I think they should, they might listen.”

“I can help,” Melissa offers kindly, a small smile on her face. “I know each and every one of them, after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters to go! The next one will be the completion of the story, and the last one is the sexy epilogue I've been planning since day 1. For those of you who have subscribed and bookmarked and kudos and commented and read these last couple months, your support and positivity has been a major blessing for me! Thank you all from the bottom of my heart for sticking it out on this (much longer than planned) story.


	11. The Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion to our case and story!! Sherlock takes a major chance and tries to fix it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings:  
> Brief mention of past child abuse  
> Brief mention of past bullying  
> Brief mention of past suicide attempts  
> Brief mention of past eating disorder behavior  
> Implied/Referenced Transphobia
> 
> Please take care of yourself. The section that references these things is in full italics, and it's right after Sherlock starts talking with Trish (the young girl in the clearing). If that topic is something you're sensitive to, you can feel free to skip the italicized paragraph and still have no problems with understanding what's happening. <3

Bailey stalks off to collect the teens from around the camp. The crowd follows her, faces perplexed as she rounds them up and brings them over to us. Melissa glances back at me, eyebrows knitted together in concern, as she waits for everyone to encircle us and give her their full attention. Several of the teens whisper to each other when they see her, clearly recognizing her from their time in the summer camp. The group numbers nine in total, and each of them has their own version of concern and curiosity on their faces.

“Hi, everyone,” the therapist starts. She takes a deep breath before continuing, preparing for whatever might happen next. “You _all_ know me, and I know you. Some of you I know as you are now. Some of you I know from... _before_ . No matter what, you know _I’m here as a friend._ ”

There are some murmurs amongst the group momentarily before one of the younger teens says, “How do _we_ know that?”

Melissa is about to answer when Joe clears his throat. “She _helped_ me. I came out at camp and asked to swap cabins. _She made everyone listen to me_ and got them to let me do it.”

Several of the older teens nod as they remember similar experiences. “Melissa always treated me like I was important,” a young man says. “No matter _what_ or _who_ I was.”

The naysayer from before clamps their mouth shut and looks at their feet, sensing the shift in the group towards trusting the therapist.

Melissa looks around, expecting more comments, and when no one else speaks she continues. “I am _sorry_ that I didn’t support you more, and I’m so sad that your families and friends have made life so tough for you that you feel like running away to live here. It’s impressive, your setup here. You are all so talented, and--”

“ _You_ want us to go **_home_** ,” the naysayer interrupts. “ _That’s_ why you’re here. The detective found us, and now he’s trying to get us to come with him so he can solve the case, _right_?”

Shaking her head, Melissa raises her hands defensively and says, “That’s _not_ what this is about.”

Unable to hold back anymore, I take a step forward and add, “Yes, we want you to come home. But it isn’t so I can _solve the case_ \--it’s so your parents don’t have to grieve children who _aren’t_ dead. It’s so society can see what ostracizing people does to them. You are the only ones who have _the audacity to be honest_. It’s so everyone can realize that acceptance is the thing we _all_ need and the thing that we _can_ and **_should_ ** all give freely to each other. You want to change the world? You want people to wake up? Then you **can’t** run. You **can’t** hide. You have to be **you** , and **be proud** about it. That’s how people get over their biases and change. They have to open their eyes, and if you’re all off hiding in the woods then _no one will see_ **_you_** _._ ”

The group is silent as they consider my speech, some of them avoiding eye contact (knowing I speak the truth.) Bailey gives them a moment, then steps into the middle of the circle. “We can’t stay here forever,” she says quietly, looking down at her feet. “And as I get older, I realize that this was always meant to be a temporary solution. A way to get back at my parents for treating me like I was a liar, a _faker_. And if they _are_ so ashamed of me, running away only gives them an easy out.” She pauses and turns to look at me and Melissa, then reaches to take Melissa’s hand. Once connected, Bailey pulls Melissa forward into the center of the circle, tears streaming down her face as she does it. “I would never dream of forcing _anyone_ to do _anything_. But Melissa _wants to help_. She wants to advocate for us to our parents so they understand. People don’t always change, but maybe if we have professionals like her and Mr. Holmes we might stand a chance. I am going with her back to the camp, and I hope you all choose to join us.”

Stunned, the rest of the teens stare as the women turn and walk past me towards the edge of the forest. The clearing is silent but for the gentle call of the chickadees nearby. Wind blows through the tops of the trees, rustling their branches together, while I wait for the rest of the group to give their answers.

I _don’t_ expect them to come.

I don’t know _what_ _I’ll do_ if they don’t.

John would yell about that. He would shout that I was being irresponsible, and tell me the reasons I’m wrong. Then he would storm off and fix my _mistake_ , the vein in his forehead bulging as he lost faith in me once again.

He’d be disappointed.

_Can’t say I blame him._

No one says a word, and it’s evident that there’s no point in staying. I turn and start following the women, my teeth clenched and head pounding.

_Failure._

As I clear the first few trees, there’s a nervous shout from behind me. “ _Wait_!”

The adrenaline in my system pools low in my gut, my knees shaky as I pause. _They’re going to ask me not to tell. I don’t know what to say._

Crunching leaves and snapping twigs surround me as nearly all of the children make their way through the woods, pushing aside briars and low hanging branches. Joe moves to stand on my right, his face nervous as he says, “Bring us with you, Mr. Holmes.”

A chorus of _bring us home_ and _please_ erupts from the group. My throat tightens with relief as I nod, eyes stinging while I glance around at the young faces in the forest.

_Seven._

In the clearing, a young woman stands by herself, shoulders shaking as she holds her face in her hands. The teens watch her with me, awkward and silent. Joe shrugs, then whispers, “She’s too scared.”

Making my way carefully towards her, I pause a couple metres away and clear my throat. She peers over the tops of her fingers, eyebrows furrowing as she sees me, and hides her face again. Between sobs, she chokes out, “You don’t understand what happened to me every single day of my _fucking_ life in that house. I can’t go back, and I can’t stay here alone. _I’d rather die._ ”

_Lives in London, judging by her accent. Permanent skin mottling indicative of long term abuse-- stepfather tries to beat her into being a man. Mother cowers in fear in the bathroom, knowing if she intervenes she’ll be the next target; typical for domestic violence. Goes to a Catholic boys’ school, judging by the crucifix around her neck, where she’s bullied and beaten daily. Scars on her wrists indicate two--no, three suicide attempts. Weakened enamel on her teeth are evidence of an eating disorder prior to coming to camp. She’s gained back most of the weight she lost through purging, but is in need of dentistry to repair the damage._

**_Deplorable_** _._

“What’s your name?” I ask quietly.

She lowers her hands to cross against her chest and glares at me. “Trish,” she bites out.

“Trish, your life doesn’t have to be like that anymore. I’ll make sure your stepfather never lays a hand on you again,” I assure her.

Her eyes, red-rimmed and puffy, widen as she looks up at me. “ _How did you know?_ ” she whispers with a hard swallow. She curls in on herself, gaze dropping back down to her feet. “I never told anyone.”

Smiling to myself, I sigh and drop down to my knees, looking up at her from below. “I didn’t know; I saw. It’s,” I wave my hand in the air between us. “It’s just _something_ I do. _Please_ trust me, Trish. I am... _involved_ with the police in London.” In the distance, I can hear the quiet murmuring of our audience in the woods, watching our exchange. Dropping my voice to a whisper, I add, “I’ll make him _pay_ , Trish. But I can’t do it if you don’t come with me.”

Sniffling, she swipes the back of her hand under her nose and nods slowly, taking my outstretched hand in hers and pulling me up to stand. She looks away as the small crowd at the treeline whoops and hollers, her cheeks tinted pink and lips in a tight pout of embarrassment.

“All right, all right, that’s enough,” Melissa chides the cheering group. “Let’s go. We don’t have much time, and we need to talk about the plan on the way.”

Trish and I bring up the rear of the crew, picking our way carefully through the overgrown brush while we head towards camp. Occasionally she glances up at me, her face carefully blank as she tries to hide her storm of emotions from me.

I don’t need to look to be able to identify what she’s feeling--I know it as well as I know the periodic table. While our pasts may be different, the war inside is the same. Fight for acceptance, or give up and lead a false life.

_I’m glad we’re fighting today._

* * *

Indistinct chatter floats through the trees as we approach the camp. While initially Bailey and Melissa were leading the way, they stop and look back at me for guidance. The rest of the teens pause and do the same--ten pairs of eyes watching me curiously for an indication of what to do next. As my heart speeds, a familiar tingle of adrenaline floods my veins and my face breaks into a grin.

Excited energy flows through me, a restlessness that sinks down to my bouncing feet. Fingers twitching at my side, I smile one last time at Trish and stride to the front of the pack to peek through the forest at the camp. Beside me, Joe exhales loudly.

“What do you want us to do, Mr. Holmes?” he whispers nervously.

“Wait here while I look closer. I need to signal my,” _boyfriend!?_ “partner, John.” Gesturing behind me for them to wait, I creep through the thick underbrush until I have a clear line of sight into the main area of the camp. Parents are milling about the mess hall with the police, and John is off to one side with Alice. The two of them look pensive, and John occasionally glances into the trees, doing his best to look nonchalant about it.

_Dammit! No mobile._

As I look back at the group behind me, Melissa and I lock eyes and I wave her forward to me. She picks her way through the briars and peers up into my face, awaiting instructions.

“You’re the expert here. What’s the best way to handle this?” I ask quietly.

Her eyes widen dramatically and she shrugs. “Uh, I’ve never done this before,” she counters. “I mean, in therapy, both parties should know they are in therapy, and consent to it. What did John tell everyone?”

Frowning at her, I mirror her shrug. “No idea.”

“Aren’t you a _master of deduction_? Can’t you tell from just looking at him? Or them?” the therapist challenges with a smirk.

Rolling my eyes at her but knowing I won’t refuse the bait, I stare at John again and focus. “All he said was that they would get answers about the disappearances of their children. He didn’t tell them what’s been happening--he’s waiting for me. See how he keeps looking into the woods? He knows how much I _love_ to reveal the conclusions, to be _dramatic_ . But he’s nervous. You can tell by how fidgety he is; he keeps clenching his fist at his side. He thinks we weren’t successful in convincing the kids to join us. Oh, _John_ , have some faith!” I exclaim under my breath with a smile.

I love observing him when he doesn’t know I’m watching--it’s like another version of him, another side to cherish, to keep. _To love_.

“ _Impressive_ ,” Melissa comments once I finish. “Well, unless you intend on grandstanding, maybe we should just rip the bandaid off? Grab everyone and stride out into the open?”

“Can’t argue with a dramatic entrance. I’ll walk out first, you follow with the teens,” I instruct, ruffling my curls and standing up straighter. As I move out of the darkness of the forest and into the clearing, John seems to sense my presence and looks straight into my eyes before anyone else notices me. He stares for a moment with a small smile, then flicks his gaze behind me to the group in tow. As his face lights up with a huge smile, one of the parents in the group gasps and points at us, drawing the attention of the rest of the adults.

Behind me, Bailey shouts, “Hi, Mom!”

There’s a hush as the collection of adults in front of us stare in shock, and Bailey’s mom weaves to the front of the group and stops short. There’s a quiet snicker as a couple of the teens laugh at Bailey’s attempt at humor, and I can see John fighting with himself to refrain from giggling. Finally, one of the parents asks, “What happened to all of you?”

After receiving a collection of head nods from the group, I take a deep breath and begin. “Your children have been living in secret, on their own, in the woods near the camp since the day they disappeared. Bailey was the first to leave,” I say while waving a hand in her direction. “And she’s been quite clever at managing it for everyone else.” The teens again nod vigorously, a few throwing sweet smiles at their would-be savior.

At this, a police officer steps forward and demands, “But, _why_?”

Melissa takes a step forward, her hands raised in an attempt to disarm. “This is going to be tricky and emotional to discuss, so I’d like to have your permission to handle it without a police presence. It’s been traumatic for everyone already. Sherlock, you can give a statement about it, right?” she asks, turning towards me.

 _A statement?_ **_Hateful_** _._

In my periphery, John lowers his face into his palm, (accurately) predicting how much of a disaster this ought to be and how exasperated he will soon feel. Once he regains composure, he joins me and answers, “I’m sure we can manage, Melissa,” with a genuine smile. His eyes threaten horrible consequences if I argue, so I keep my mouth shut and fake a smile at the police.

At this, Alice steps into the middle of the clearing and assumes leadership of the situation. “Right, so, Melissa is going to take the teens and their parents into the dining hall to talk about what happened, and Sherlock and John will give statements to the police about it all. Lily, I want you to join Melissa and help her in whatever way she needs. Get some water for everyone, help them feel comfortable, okay?” Lily nods and joins Melissa, who is ushering the reunited families into the dining hall.

The head of the local police force watches them leave, baffled, before turning on John and I with wide eyes. “So…?”

“You’ll find everyone is safe and accounted for, Detective,” I comment. “Their cabin is in the woods, over there,” I add the point of my finger. “You know, it was clear fairly early on due to the lack of any struggle or witnesses that the teens were leaving of their own accord. Did you idiots even look into their medical and social histories? It would have been _immediately_ obvious to _anyone_ with half a brain cell what was going on if you had just done your jobs in the first place and--”

* * *

“You know, I was less than five minutes away, Sherlock. You couldn’t have waited?” Lestrade says as he rounds the corner in the county lockup. There’s a _thunk_ , then the unmistakable _glug, glug, glug_ as his coffee spills out of his travel mug onto the cement floor at his feet.

“Sherlock,” John murmurs into my neck, his tongue tasting my pulse point. “Lestrade is... _ahh_ , **_ahh_**! Sherlock!” He squirms beneath me on the jail cell bench, his pelvis grinding up into mine involuntarily as I suck his earlobe into my mouth and bite. _Hard_.

“ _Bloody hell_ ,” Lestrade mutters as he reaches down to pick up his dropped mug. “Oi! You two!” he hollers, irritated. “I’m here to bail you bastards out. Stop... _that_ , would you?!”

John’s fingers thread into the curls at the base of my neck and tug me away from him as he attempts to regain some control. He pants in my face, pupils enormous and lips parted. The flush on his cheeks spreads down his neck and disappears into the vee of his halfway unbuttoned shirt, highlighting the purpling marks I’ve left on his collarbone and throat. “Hey,” he growls at me, hips again thrusting up into mine. “We, um, we have to... _Christ,_ **_Sherlock_** , we have to go. Unless you want to sleep here tonight, hm?”

Running a hand up the inside of his thighs, I smile wickedly at him. “Neither of us are sleeping tonight, John,” I purr.

“I’m _leaving_!” Lestrade announces.

“No, Greg, _wait_!” John pleads, his voice a whine as I rub the heel of my hand into his groin. “ _Fuck,_ Sherlock, come on!” he adds, planting his hands on my chest and pushing me away from him.

“I **_mean_ ** it!” the Detective Inspector warns, the heels of his shoes clacking on the cement floor.

“ _Ahh, ohhhh,_ wait _,_ **_wait! Sherlock_**!” John hollers as he succeeds in extricating himself. He falls off the cement bench and scrambles to his feet, running over to the bars of the cell. “Greg!” he shouts down the hallway. “Greg, _please_!”

The only response he gets is the sound of a slamming door as Lestrade leaves the jail, causing him to drop his head to the bars in defeat. He stands still for a moment, his shoulders heaving as he breathes deeply through his nostrils.

“You’re going to _pay_ for that, Sherlock Holmes,” he growls as he turns to face me, his expression murderous.

“ _Oh_ , I **_intend_ ** to, John Watson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks! Well, for the main story, anyway. Don't worry, we will have a fun and sexy epilogue coming up too!! :D
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts on the case, the story, etc--this is my first case story and I am honestly curious about how it felt as a reader. Thanks for taking the ride with me and for being so supportive!!! Over 70 subscribers on this one--the most I've *ever* had and damn it feels nice! You are all amazing and are what make this fandom what it is.


	12. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning! Warning!!  
> There is explicit smut ahead. This chapter is purely for the enjoyment of our boys _getting it on_. It is not required to get the plot of the story at all. It is, however, required if you like reading about Sherlock and John having delicious, delicious sex.
> 
> Enjoy!!! Sorry it's been so delayed!

_14 August 2011_

_The Adventure of the Missing Teens_

_It began with a phone call, as it usually does. Sherlock and I were having a row (as we usually are) when Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade phoned to inform us of the case. Over the past several years, teens had gone missing from a summer camp located out in the far reaches of the woods northwest of London, and a concerned parent had requested assistance from New Scotland Yard after the local police force was unable to come up with anything._

_I naturally accepted the case immediately. Sherlock, on the other hand, required some persuading. Before long, we were at the train station, bags packed, as we awaited the train north._

“ _Hardly_ an adventure,” I mutter while leaning over John's shoulder to read his blog post. His jaw clenches and fingers still on the keyboard at the comment, nostril flaring as he inhales sharply. He lets the breath whistle out between his pursed lips, then begins pecking away at the keys again.

_As expected, Sherlock was just shy of insufferable on the train, the melancholy of the ride eating away at what little patience he usually has until he became irritable and snippy._

“ _Insufferable_?” I demand, lips close to his ear. “However do you stand me, since I am clearly no more than a petulant child!”

The dust motes dance in the sunlight streaming in from the nearby windows, delicate fairies performing a miniature ballet as he breathes again. The tapping of his fingers on the keys creates the rhythm for the minuet, filling our stuffy flat with their staccato beats.

_Once it was clear that I would not tolerate any more of his whinging, Sherlock retreated to his mind palace to review the details of the case, no doubt. The mind palace is a remarkable feat of his. It it clear evidence of his genius and an irreplaceable tool in his work. There are times where I wonder if his infinite memory storage and near flawless recall is a plague to him. Most people have things in their lives they'd rather forget. It is unclear if this is also true of my companion._

_The train arrived in_

“Are you implying I have nothing to regret in my life?” I ask, still leaning on the back of his chair. He again stops typing, hands coming to rest on either side of his laptop as he turns his head to face me.

“All I'm saying is that I don't know. No one does. Part of your popularity is the mystery surrounding _you_ , you know. People don't know what to think of you,” he replies, clearly picking his words carefully. “And since _this_ is how we pay our bills,” he pauses while gesturing at the computer screen. “It doesn't hurt to play it up a bit.”

He looks back at his screen, rereading what he’s written, when an alert pops in the bottom right-hand corner of his screen.

**> >You have 1 new mail.**

Dragging his finger across the touchpad, he brings his mouse pointer over to open the alert.

“Going to read my email over my shoulder now? Have I lost all privacy by entering a relationship with you?” John snaps, the mouse pointer still hovering over the alert. His index finger rests on the button of his touchpad while he waits for me to remove myself, eyebrows high on his forehead in expectation.

I sigh loudly in his ear and plant a soft kiss on his neck, then rise to stalk over to my chair, blue silk dressing gown flapping as I move. The leather creaks as I plop down into it, steepling my fingers beneath my nose and watching the dust as it continues to swirl in the hot afternoon sun. To my left, I hear the _click_ as John opens his email. _Finally._

Outside, the sounds of tires on the road and the ding from the bell at Speedy’s drifts up through our open windows. A bird lands on the window ledge, chirping quietly to itself as it takes respite from the late summer heat. John breathes heavily, then shuts his laptop. The chair scratches along the floor as he scoots away from the desk, and his socked feet thump quietly as he walks over to me.

“That was an email from Alice,” he announces. “Letting me know that the summer camp received a _generous,_ **_anonymous_ ** donation with explicit instructions to replace the boat house with, quote, _something less pathetic,_ unquote _.”_

“How fortuitous,” I comment, blinking at him.

He places his hands on the arms of the chair and leans forward, peering into my face with a sly smile. “And I’m sure you have _no_ idea how _that_ might have happened, hm?” he asks, tongue running over his bottom lip as he stares at me.

Taking advantage of his position, I drag my bare foot up the inside of his ankle, drawing up his trouser leg with my toes. He inhales sharply, mouth dropping open as I caress his bare skin with the ball of my foot. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, John,” I purr, allowing my head to roll back onto my shoulders as he looms over me.

John dips down, his face mere centimeters from my own, and smiles broadly. “Mm,” he hums before brushing his tea-flavored lips against mine. I continue rubbing my foot on his calf while reaching up to thread my fingers in the hair on the back of his head, earning a growl from him before he presses his lips fully against mine. We stay connected for a mere moment before he pulls away, only to press his mouth against mine again and again, hunger and passion overtaking all of his impulse control.

We kiss like that for a while until the awkward position gets the best of us and he sinks down to my lap with a deep, chest rumbling moan, knees on either side of my thighs. Pressing his pelvis into mine, he grinds against me while he ravages my mouth, tongue sliding in to rub along the insides of my cheeks and over the tops of my teeth. The sensations are overwhelming--the hard line of his cock rubbing as he ruts against me, the denim scratching through the silk of my dressing gown. His broad, strong chest and arms wrapped around my shoulders, a hand snaking up the back of my head to wind itself into my curls while the other holds my throat and jaw steady so he can claim me for his own. It’s heady, this _possession_ , and I find myself melting as my senses succumb to the tidal wave that is _John._

Breaking for a moment, John gulps lungful after lungful and presses his forehead against my neck, his heart racing nearly as quickly as mine. “ **Fuck** ,” he growls as he nips his way down my throat. The moment he gets to the shawl collar of my dressing gown, he whips it aside and continues sucking and biting the thin skin along my collarbone. The hand in my hair drops down to grip the back of my chair, giving John more leverage to press his body against mine.

Friction in my lap pulls a moan from me, and suddenly the layers of clothing between us are too thick, too cumbersome. Yanking my hands away from his hips, I thread them between our bodies and feel for the button on his trousers. He mumbles something heady into my collarbone and continues his assault on my trapezius, all teeth and tongue as he peppers my skin with evidence of his claim on me. Fumbling with his zipper, my fingers slipping from the awkward position and angle, I huff out a sigh and bring my hands to his chest, pushing him away from me.

“ _John_ ,” I gasp, breathless.

He stares at me, lips swollen and cheeks flushed. He’s panting, his tea-laced breath washing over me. “What?” he asks after he catches his breath, swiping a hand down his face, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

Letting my eyes wander down his body to catch at his bulging jeans in my lap, I smile. “You’re insatiable,” I say with a smirk.

“And you’re not?” he retorts, eyes flicking down to the obvious tent in my dressing gown.

“ _Irrelevant_. How could _anyone_ resist _you_?”

The flush in his cheeks deepens at the compliment, and I again bring my hands to his fly. Batting my hands away, he slinks off my lap and settles onto his knees in front of me, eyeing me hungrily. “Are you wearing any pants?” he asks with a sly grin, hands resting on top of my thighs. His fingers knead the muscle, pads pressing into the silk and sliding it over my skin. The sensation is tantalizing, the fabric catching occasionally on my wiry leg hair as it moves.

Shaking my head, I spread my legs wider to show him my lack of undergarments. The dressing gown falls open with my knees, exposing everything John wants and needs right now. He licks his lips, staring shamelessly at me, and inhales deeply. Without a word, he reaches up and unties the belt to my robe, hands brushing it away from my body to pool at my sides.

Nestled in the crook of my groin, my erection bobs free, standing proudly for him. Settling back into my chair, I allow my knees to go lax, falling against the arms of my seat as he runs his palms up towards my hips. Wrapping his hands around my hip bones, he leans forward and opens his mouth, hovering a few centimetres above my cock.

“John, _mmm_ , I'll come on your face before you even touch me if you keep staring at me like that,” I murmur, bringing my hands up to rest on his shoulders.

He just smirks in reply, the devil in his eyes as he lets his tongue slide forward, this time so close I can feel the heat from his mouth on the head of my cock.

“ _For God's sake,_ **_John_** _!_ ”

The man, no, the _bastard_ withdraws his tongue and instead purses his lips and _blows_ . Writhing beneath his hands, I let out a high pitched whine and drop my head back onto the chair. This is _torture!_

And then, the wet tip of his tongue brushes gently against my skin, sending electricity up my thighs. He presses harder to keep my hips from bucking, easily holding my lithe frame in place as he looms over me. Lick after lick assaults my senses, consistent in pressure and duration. It’s enough to make my cock impossibly harder yet not anywhere near enough to edge me closer to release. As I squirm beneath his ministrations, moaning and whimpering, I hear his soft chuckle of amusement.

_Enough!_

Thrusting my hands into his hair, I push at the back of his scalp, hoping to give him enough encouragement to take things further. He resists, holding his head exactly where it is, and looks up through his lashes at me while withdrawing his tongue. “Naughty boy, Sherlock,” he chides, an eyebrow raised. “So impatient today!”

“I’m always impatient,” I argue with a glare.

Again he laughs, eyes softening as he nods. “Shall we take this to another location so I may shag you properly, then?”

Seeing his face so close to my erect and leaking cock is enough to make me salivate, and hearing the words _shag you properly_ in his aroused, husky voice weakens my knees and makes my thighs tremble. “ _God_ , **_yes_** ,” I reply, removing my hands from his head and pushing him away from me. He stoops, giving the tip of my cock a sweet, closed mouth kiss before standing. Pressing his hands to the small of his back, he stretches and cracks several vertebrae, then reaches to give me a hand.

John yanks me out of my chair, wrapping his arms around inside my dressing gown and pulling me close to him. Nuzzling my chest, he pats my bare arse and murmurs, “Come on, you.”

The walk down the hall is a quick one, him leading while holding my hand. The moment we are in the bedroom he turns to shut the door, then presses me against it with his still clothed, muscled body.

“John…”

“Mm, _yeah_ , Sherlock…”

Friction and rubbing and texture and hard, hard, _hard! God I can barely stand it!_

“Turn around, Sherlock,” John commands in my ear, fingers clutching my waist. As I comply, he lets go and slides them into the collar of my dressing gown, slipping it off my shoulders and down my arms. The cool air slinks across my bare back, raising goosebumps as it kisses the sensitive skin. Behind me, I can hear the pop of his denim button, then the _click click click_ of the zipper as he pulls it open. My heart races in my chest, pounding as I await what I know is coming next.

John particularly enjoys fucking me against hard objects like doors, walls, and tables, usually standing while he bends me over. It's a position that gives him easier access to my prostate and maximum penetration, and he usually has such intense orgasms that he nearly knocks us both over and he drapes bonelessly over me.

_Also, it feels bloody fantastic._

There’s a soft thud as he trousers and pants hit the floor, pooling around his ankles. He plants a hand in the middle of my back between my shoulder blades, keeping me pressed against the door to the bedroom as he steps forward. Silky warmth drags against my upper thighs, the head of his cock damp and smearing precum all over my skin as he leans his chest against mine. My head falls against the door as I give in to the sensations of his body surrounding me, enveloping me. He takes his time, allowing his cock to bob and drag while he breathes in my ear, hot air washing over my neck and tickling the tiny curls at my hairline. The shudder that runs through me shakes me down to my toes, and he licks a stripe up the side of my neck in response.

“You want me to fuck you against this door, hm?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Nodding furiously, I wiggle my arse suggestively and press my pelvis back, seeking him. “John, you know what I want, now get on with it!” I beg as he pulls away, hand still between my shoulder blades but the warmth of the rest of his body withdrawn.

“Not so fast, Sherlock, _not so fast_. I want to draw this out. You’re so beautiful like this, spread-eagle and ready for me, but I want to see your face when you come,” he replies softly, pressing kisses to my back. Embracing me from behind, he pulls me away from the door and encourages me to turn to face him.

Turning in the circle of his arms, I smile down at him and ask, “Let me ride you, John Watson.”

His mouth drops open at the request, and it’s _his_ turn to blink speechlessly at me.

“But first,” I add, hands coming up to pull at his shirt. “Get rid of this useless shirt, would you?”

Moments barely seem to pass as he scrambles to rid himself of his clothing and crawl up on to our bed, laying with his head on the pillows and his cock standing up straight, pointing at the ceiling. His eyes are wide as he stares at me, licking his lips and waiting for me as I take a moment to drink him in, committing this glorious image to the John wing of my Mind Palace.

With a deep breath, I join him on the bed, straddling his thighs so our erections align between us. His hand fumbles under the pillow and produces a bottle of lube, which he opens with the flick of his thumb before drizzling the cool liquid all over us. Then, he grabs my hand and squeezes another few globs out onto my fingers. He chucks the bottle to the side and takes us both in one hand while the other slides across my palm and starts scissoring between my fingers, coating them in lubricant.

“Hm,” he hums, eyes hazy with desire. “Since you’re in this position, looks like you’ll be responsible for preparing yourself for me.” His pulse point throbs in his neck as he strains to look down his chest at me, eyes flicking back and forth between the spot where our cocks emerge from the ring of his thumb and forefinger and up at my dripping fingers.

“With pleasure,” I purr, reaching my slick hand behind me. The moment my arm flexes, stretching to reach my arse, he moans and his hips buck as he thrusts slowly into his hand. Our cocks slide together as he pumps up and down, the lube warming quickly from the heat of our bodies.

Slipping my index finger between my arse cheeks, I probe gently until I find the tight ring of puckered muscle that’s waiting for me. John keeps moving slowly beneath me, pinned by my weight on his thighs but making a valiant effort of fucking his hand while he waits for me. The sight of him, a blush spread across his pectorals and creeping up his neck with his head thrown back, small whimpers of pleasure escaping his lips--it’s _divine_ . The throb low in my abdomen increases, sending tingles up my back as I slip my finger inside. At first, my strokes are slow and cautious, merely seeking to relax the muscles and prepare myself for him. It doesn’t take long for the burn to subside, and I find myself wanting more, _needing_ more. A second finger goes in easily, pulling a throaty moan from my lips as I raise and lower myself in time with John, whose thrusts have maintained a steady pace from the start.

“Christ, John…,” I hear myself whine as I curl my finger just so, sending jolts of electricity into my cock.

Beneath me, he releases a hand from our cocks and grips my hip, stilling us both. “Ride me, Sherlock. Fuck yourself on me.”

With a nod, I remove my fingers, arse pulsing with the sudden loss, and raise up onto my knees above him. He releases my cock and holds himself steady, guiding me down onto him until my arse cheeks are against the tops of his thighs and we’re both gasping like fish out of water at the overload. The fullness inside me is on the edge of too much, the muscles quivering as they fight to relax against the intrusion. John’s chest heaves as he forces himself to be still, ever careful and wary of hurting me by moving too soon.

The clock ticks on the wall, counting out the seconds as we wait.

Then, suddenly, the shift occurs. His eyes snap to mine and he smiles, knowing I’m ready. Placing my hands on his pectoral muscles, I engage my thighs and slide slowly up his length, relishing the way his cock drags along the inside of my arse. Every millimeter is full of sensation, making my cock leak and my belly tremble. Before pulling off of him completely, I relax and slam myself back down to his thighs, angling so the tip of his cock brushes past my prostate.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , **_John_**!” I yell, nearly losing myself at the feeling. As I slide up again, he tilts his hips _just so_ and drags himself against that spot, _that_ **_spot_** , and I whimper something unintelligible in response. Smirking, he grips my hips harder and yanks on me, pulling me down to him as he snaps his thighs up against my arse. Moving my hands to his sides, I brace myself against the bed and curl over him, finding the right position to ensure he catches me just right every time he thrusts up inside me. We move in tandem, our caution quickly ebbing away as I fuck myself on him and he slaps into me, our skin smacking together with each thrust.

“Show me,” John commands, his voice breathless as he lifts his hips off the bed. “I want...unngh, Sherlock, mmm, yeah, like _that_ ,” he purrs as I shift to take him deeper. “Bloody hell, you are...mm, yeah…” He releases my hip and brings his hand to my chest, palm sliding over the sweat-slick skin as he rubs my nipple with his thumb. The sparks that spread through my body at the touch threaten to do me in, a high-pitched keen coming from my lips as I throw my head back. Running his hand down my torso, he finally reaches my cock and takes me in hand, fingers wrapping around my pulsating length and pumping in time with our movements.

“Ohhhh, oh, oh, God, John!”

Come spurts over the top of his hand, striping his torso with white streaks as I continue riding him through the aftershocks, each drag of his cock against my prostate eliciting another pulse from me. Through the dopamine haze, I can feel him harden further at the sight of his chest covered in my semen. His cheeks flushed and damp hair matted to his forehead, he huffs and grabs my hips, pulling me off him so he can scramble out from beneath me. As I collapse, he flips me over onto my back and pulls my knees up, aligning himself as he settles between my legs.

“Sherlock, you okay?” he asks, the tip of his cock hovering at my entrance.

Recovering slightly, I smirk and nod. “Of course, though I’ll be much better once you fuck me into the mattress and your come is dripping from my arse, John.”

Blinking, he shakes his head and takes a deep breath, then slides home once again in one fell swoop. “That can be arranged,” he growls as he starts pumping in and out of me, shallowly and quickly the way he likes it, chasing orgasm. Drops of sweat bead on his forehead as he exerts himself, biceps flexed as he holds himself above me, my knees resting on his shoulders. For a moment, the only sounds in the room are skin slapping erratically against skin and our ragged breaths co-mingling.

And then--

“Yeah, yeah! Yeah! ohhhhh, yeahhhhh, unnngh…”

Three more frantic thrusts and he stiffens, filling me completely. The moment he's done, he melts on top of me, sweaty body clammy as he rests on my chest. I wrap myself around him, my hand coming up to pet the back of his head. His slowly softening cock slips out of me, lubricated by the ejaculate that drips slowly out onto the bed, just as I requested. His heart thrums against my chest, a hummingbird trapped inside his ribs as he tries to regulate his breathing, matching it to mine.

Humming, John smiles into the crook of my neck, nuzzling his nose into me. “You will be the death of me,” he murmurs.

“Unlikely,” I reply, my voice hoarse from overuse.

We lay like that for a while, our bodies finally cooling down and heart rates slowing.

“You’re the anonymous donor,” John adds as he starts drifting off to sleep.

“Quite right.”

“I love you for that.”

“Mm. Love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read this! Find me on Tumblr @Arcwin1.
> 
> If you enjoy delving into Sherlock's mind the way I do, my story Relevance is *all* stream of consciousness thought stuff from ASiP and it's a lot of fun. :)


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